Firewall
by Little Tanuki
Summary: Alternate Timeline. Set just after 5th season "Doctor Bashir I Presume" What if Dr. Bashir had not been allowed to remain in Starfleet? T for Adult themes.
1. Voices in the Dark

**Alternate Timeline: What if Doctor Bashir had not been allowed to stay in Starfleet?**

**Disclaimer: I am nothing to do with Star Trek. I do not own it. I just like to sneak in and play with it for a while. L.T.**

* * *

**"_They don't put people away for being Genetically Engineered."_**

_**"No. They just won't let you do anything that's worth doing."**_

**(Bashir & Jack - _Statistical Probabilities_)**

* * *

A chime at the door. And again. Banging on the outer wall, and the muffled sound of someone shouting his name.

"Julian - let me in."

How long had it been? Three days? Five? Or was time just as illusory as his future, with one day every bit as dark as the next?

"_I'm sorry, Doctor." It had fallen to the aging, silver-haired Rear Admiral Bennet to place the final stone on that unbreakable wall, cutting him off forever from everything he had ever dreamed. "The laws concerning genetic engineering are quite clear. I'm afraid there is little I can do."_

_And it had been left to Captain Sisko to thank the Rear Admiral for his time and consideration, and to smile politely as Bennet signed off. Turning to Bashir, he'd hesitated. His voice came out soft and low._

"_I'm sorry, Julian."_

"_So am I, Sir." But the doctor - no, _former_ doctor - had not had the energy to listen to apologies. He'd barely been able to muster enough of a voice to excuse himself as he hurried from the room._

His mind was projecting the same scene onto the darkness of his quarters as if all his life were some kind of faulty holoprogramme. And the moment it finished, some small ghost of himself would take him back to the start and force him to watch it all over again.

_The end of his future had been horribly straightforward. His replacement, a Doctor Nathan Hayes, had arrived from Starbase 375 the very next day. Bashir had surprised himself at how little emotion crept into his voice as he greeted the new CMO at the airlock, and introduced him to all the little daily quirks that punctuated his life on the station. Transferring his personal codes to Hayes, he'd imagined himself channelling the cold, clinical voice of Deep Space Nine's computer._

"_Well," he said once it was done, acutely aware of how distant he felt - watching the scene more than being a part of it. "It's all yours."_

_And then he'd turned to leave._

"_Julian," Hayes called to Bashir, who stopped in the doorway. "I'm sorry."_

_Bashir almost choked on the painful lump that rose in his throat, feeling like he'd swallowed a long, knotted rope. Turning around, he forced a tight smile. "Thank you, Doctor."_

It had ended there. He was no longer in Starfleet.

The door chime sounded a third time, followed by a short pause, and the hushed _click, click _of somebody activating the security override.

Julian barely responded to the sound of the door sliding open, although his eyes were briefly offended by a sudden flood of light from outside. A moving shadow stepped over the threshold just before the door closed obligingly behind them.

"So are you gonna talk to me now or do I have to drag you out of here?"

Miles O'Brien. His distinctive voice cut through the blackness, but Julian knew that it would be a good ten minutes before the chief engineer's eyes would be able to distinguish which of the assorted, unilluminated shapes was him. He set his face into an invisible scowl. "I told you, Miles. Just leave me alone."

"Well, you know something? I'm getting pretty fed up with leaving you alone. I don't reckon it's working very well at all, do you?"

_Looks like it's back to Earth after all_, thought Bashir. More than one of his family members had offered to take him in. But the thought of returning filled him with such unbearable dread. And there was the hearing. His parents' hearing… He had railed against the very idea of going to court, clearly remembering how tired he had been of fighting lost causes. But then there'd been a summons. They'd given him no choice but to testify.

If only he could just stop _thinking_ about it.

"Anyway," said O'Brien as he picked his way cautiously across the room. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"Packing."

"It doesn't take four days to pack."

So. It had been _four_. "…And other things."

"Like what?" The Chief paused. "Are you drunk?"

Bashir's only response was a hollow chuckle.

"That's it," fumed O'Brien. "You're coming with me. Now. Tonight. I don't want any argument on this. You're having supper with me and Keiko and I'm not leaving until you agree. And no more of this sitting around in the dark. Computer. Lights!"

* * *

Drinking - getting completely, blindly drunk, even - was not a problem for Miles O'Brien. Drinking alone and in the dark? That was crossing a line.

He was met by a scene of a room in disarray. Half empty bottles lay discarded on the floor beneath the windowsills. A glass in one corner had already spilt its contents onto the pages of an open book. Furniture had been upturned, a chair leg was cracked almost in two. Soil from the pot of a horribly abused plant had stained a large section of the carpet, and the surrounding walls bore the scuffs of a furious attack.

O'Brien's stomach twisted into knots as he surveyed the destruction all around him. He'd had enough of his own gut-churning rages to know that they did very little to dull whatever turmoil had caused them. Swallowing hard, he took a deep, inward breath and allowed it to escape just as slowly through his mouth.

Julian was crouched at the entrance to his own room. His head was bowed against one arm, which rested heavily across both knees. Tousled hair veiled his eyes, and his other hand toyed with something slender and lightweight on the floor beside him.

O'Brien felt a sudden chill just beneath his skin. "What's in your hand?"

Moving impossibly slowly, Bashir raised his head a little and lifted the object for closer scrutiny. "Mm… Where'd this come from?"

"Dammit, Julian. That's not funny."

A shrug. "Not for lack of trying, I assure you."

_Curse you for a pig-headed moron_, O'Brien wanted to shout. But he reined in his temper and narrowly resisted a temptation to join in the concerted effort to trash Bashir's quarters. Instead he dropped to a tight crouch directly in front of him and snatched the object from his unresisting hand. "Tell me, Julian. What is this?"

"It's a hypo," whispered Bashir, his eyes already starting to close.

"I know it's a hypo, you bloody…" Miles slapped his friend's cheek until his eyes opened a little further, and at least appeared to focus.

"Come on - you're not getting away that easily. What the Hell were you thinking?" he demanded.

"I was tired."

"Of all the stupid…" With a yell of frustration, O'Brien leapt to his feet and began to pace like an angry bear. He thumped the combadge attached to his chest, and found himself unable to keep the anger out of his voice as he shouted into it. "O'Brien to Doctor Hayes. I need a medical team to Julian Bashir's quarters. _Now_."


	2. Condition

**"**_**A man's faith may sustain his broken body, but when courage dies, what hope is left**_**?"**

**(_Proverbs_, x. viii. 14.)**

* * *

They talked as he slept.

"I never even saw it coming." Miles kept his voice low, standing slightly apart from their agitated huddle. Even on his return from that Dominion prison - had it really been less than a month ago now? - Julian had never looked so haggard. He remembered how his friend had barely responded to his repeated attempts to lighten the mood, or his occasional quips about how it had been easier to be friends with a changeling than it had to be friends with him. But back in his quarters, the man had been eerily thin and pale, with dark, hollow circles lining the base of his eyes.

"None of us did," said Major Kira. Her words were uncharacteristically quiet, close to a whisper.

"I suppose he's grown too good at hiding." The captain spoke with a heavy sigh. "Better than we'd ever realised."

_But he was my friend_. O'Brien glanced behind him to the Infirmary's main ward. _He would have noticed, if it had been me_.

There were three others - Sisko and Kira standing at each other's side, and Doctor Hayes, watching silently as if from somewhere just beyond their inner circle. The lines deepened on the doctor's weathered face, but whatever he might have wanted to say, it remained unsaid.

By contrast, the thoughts in Major Kira's intense brown eyes were as clear as if somebody had scrawled them across the nearest bulkhead. Curses on Starfleet, on the admiralty, and on the oh-so-accepting Federation that would strip a man of his future on the basis of something over which he'd never had any control. Those kind of thoughts were easy to recognise. O'Brien shared many of them himself.

But with Bashir, the response had been very different. Before that early morning meeting with Captain Sisko, Miles had watched the doctor swing from anger, to cold silence, and finally to despair and something much more like resignation than true acceptance. Afterwards, he'd just been - well - _quiet_. They'd shared their weekly darts game together, but the conversation had been cursory, strained, and largely one-sided. Even after realising that his long time rival had been letting him win for the better part of three years, O'Brien had suddenly glimpsed the man's face, and bitten back an urge to comment.

"But what do you do?" he muttered, half to himself. "I mean, we've all seen some pretty horrible things in our time. But at the end of the day, there was always our work to go back to. We've always had that lifeline."

_And no time to sit in darkened rooms, staring into the void and stewing in our own despair_. He knew as well as anyone alive what that kind of solitude could do to a man.

Hayes' already worried frown deepened still further.

Although his own face did not create such clearly defined grooves, the expression was mirrored on Sisko's brow. "Doctor?"

"It's probably nothing," Hayes spoke in the same hushed whisper. "I'd say he's out of any immediate physical danger. I've been able to flush most of the drug from his system, and I should be able to release him by the end of the day, as long as…"

A flash of anxiety passed almost imperceptibly across Sisko's features. "As long as…?"

"Excuse me?" said a voice from the far end of the room - soft but clear, and infuriatingly polite. "But when you're done talking about me as if I'm not even here, I'd like my clothes back. Uh… Please."

* * *

Familiar smells - of slightly dry, sterilised air and bottled antiseptic. A constant, cold light burrowing through his eyelids. Voices. All lowered to a cautious whisper. They were talking about him.

He swallowed, throat as dry as desert sand, and carefully tested his vocal chords with a series of soft, almost silent noises. They seemed to get stronger with each try. When he spoke, his voice was thin, weaker than he would have liked. But it carried well enough to make the other voices stop.

Opening his eyes, he blinked until the colours above him drifted into focus, and resolved into the hovering shapes of Sisko and Hayes. He shied from the light that Doctor Hayes was shining in his eyes, and batted his hand away. "I'm fine," he growled, although his words came out a little slurred and his mouth felt like it had been scraped with broken glass.

Sisko stormed around the ginger haired doctor until he was close enough for Julian to smell the spices on his breath. "You," he commanded, pointing a warning finger as if to drill right through his slender chest. "Are staying right there until Doctor Hayes says you can get up, and not a moment before. That's an order."

With a sigh, Bashir scowled at the snaking IV tubes that someone had attached to his arm. He had vague recollections of trying to struggle, of being held down by two reluctant nurses who flinched every time he moved. _So this is what it's come to_, he thought. _You've known these people for years, and already they're afraid of you_.

There was no fear in the captain's eyes, but neither could he bring himself to look upon that flimsy mask set up to hide such anxious sympathy. "I'm not in Starfleet any more," he murmured, so softly that he barely even heard the words himself. "No orders."

"I'm ordering you to stay," Hayes remarked. "And doctor's orders count no matter who or where you are."

Bashir's scowl deepened. "But I'm fine."

"You, sir, are on suicide watch."

"Suicide watch? But… That's ridiculous. I just… I was tired, that's all."

"I'd say it was more than just that, Doctor." Hayes folded well-muscled arms across his chest. "How long since you last ate?"

"Don't call me that!" Even the captain winced at the sudden vehemence in his words. "I'm not a doctor, you hear me? Not any more."

"How long, Julian?"

That was better. He shrugged, but did not look them in the eye. "This morning… Last night… I don't know. I haven't been very hungry recently."

Hayes' expression remained hard and probing. "Lie to us all you want - it makes little difference right now. Just don't play me for a fool. You're losing far too much weight and your blood sugar is dangerously low. If you don't start eating again soon I _will_ keep you here until you do."

"But you can't…"

"Oh, yes I can."

Bashir's eyes sought those of Captain Sisko, but found them just as unwavering. "Please, Captain," he begged, struggling to hold back a rising lump in his throat. He could not bear the thought of any more time spent staring at those walls, or listening to those familiar sounds that only reminded him of all that he had lost.

The captain's face instantly softened. "Rest, Julian," he said, and placed a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Then we'll see."

Feeling painfully self-conscious, alone and defeated, Bashir rolled over so that his back was to the others in the room. "Fine."

* * *

There was no more sleep to be had that day, but Julian was remarkably good at pretending. He kept his eyes closed, mostly as a shield against the steady stream of visitors and well-wishers that were a constant presence in the Infirmary's front room. Bad enough that Hayes and his nursing staff should have seen him this way. Not to mention the Chief, Major Kira, Captain Sisko… For a moment, despair and humiliation clutched at his chest like a snake, until he had to force himself to take another breath and fight to suppress the urge to curl up and cry.

Closing his eyes did nothing to block the images and memories that invaded his thoughts. His sense of smell was as acute as ever, and his mind still painted an all too perfect likeness of the infirmary's inner walls. And there were still the words of Rear Admiral Bennet, cutting like a laser through the beckoning darkness. "_I'm sorry, Doctor_…"

_Although apparently not sorry enough to let me stay_. He had been the first in a long line of apologists, and Bashir had long since grown tired of hearing how sorry they all were.

Footsteps approached from behind him, followed shortly afterwards by the soft musical tones of a scanning device. He turned to see Doctor Hayes standing over him with an open tricorder in one hand.

"Checking up on me?" he asked.

Looking up from his readings, the doctor smiled. "Ah. I didn't think you were really asleep."

Bashir opted not to comment. "So. Can I go now?"

"First," Hayes said, his expression grim. "I'm going to need some assurances from you."

Julian's face tensed briefly, the kind of marked disgust he associated with having to smile politely when someone served him beetroot, or tube grubs. Sitting upright, he searched the older doctor's face for a concession, a loophole, or anything he could exploit. But he knew from years of experience in similar situations that there was nothing he could think of that Hayes would not have considered already.

He lowered his head, and nodded.

"Good. So you'll be back at 0700 tomorrow for a check-up," Hayes commanded. "And if I have to chase you, then you'll be staying here for at least another day."

Bashir's only response was a softly resigned sigh. But at least this seemed to satisfy the new CMO.

"And," he continued. "After that, I've already booked you into counselling."

A groan of reluctance, but Julian nodded again.

"Then you can leave on one more condition." Doctor Hayes kept his voice firm and insistent. "That you accept the O'Briens' dinner invitation."

Bashir looked up, feeling the pressure on his shoulders increase by nearly double. "I'd really rather be alone right now, Nathan…"

"Uh. Not another word." The doctor raised his hand, silencing him. "You are free to go, but my terms are non-negotiable. And besides, they're already expecting you."


	3. A Little Warmer

**"**_**And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulder.**_

'_**Cause well you know that it's the fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder**_**."**

**(Trivia Note: Paul McCartney wrote the song _Hey Jude _in 1968, based on some advice he gave to John Lennon's son. The initial title was "Hey Jules")**

* * *

It was a delicate business, to make the tempura just so - crisp enough that the batter would not be weak or soggy, but not so overdone that all the taste was burnt away. Keiko O'Brien paused, listening to the satisfying murmur of the pan, and sighed. She could have simply used the replicator, especially being as tired as she was chasing after husband, daughter, and now a new baby son. But on some nights, Keiko just felt the urge to cook.

Her daughter watched - _stared_ - from the edge of the table, so intently that Keiko found herself wondering if she would even notice anything on the periphery. _She's learning_, the girl's mother reminded herself, although she couldn't help but wish that she might have had this moment alone. _And she's out of the way, just like you asked her_. The former schoolteacher in her was quite proud of her daughter's innate curiosity.

She'd already shooed Miles away just moments before, but sweetened his banishment with promises that later in the night she would more than make up for whatever huff he might get himself into.

"Set the table, Molly?" she asked.

"Okay!" Molly nodded enthusiastically and ran to fetch the plates. She carried them quickly to the dining area, holding them in front of her as though they were the most delicate items on the station.

_To have her energy again_, thought Keiko, shaking her head with a wry smile.

The door chime sounded. "He's here!" Molly yelled, jumping up and down so maniacally that Keiko started to wonder if Miles had been feeding her too many jumja sticks again. There was a high wail from her son's bedroom.

"Molly," she chided, abandoning her cooking to let it simmer lightly. "What did we say about making too much noise when the baby's asleep?"

"Sorry," said Molly. But she was already shinning up the back of the sofa.

Miles was stirring from his place on the couch, and set down a pile of tech manuals. "It's all right," Keiko told him before he could say anything. "You get the door, and _get her down_. I'll see to Yoshi."

* * *

"Hi," shouted Molly, and beamed up at their visitor's face. Her father was not far away. He stood behind her, wrapping his arms loosely about her shoulders. Somewhere in the next room was the slightly muffled sound of a baby crying.

But O'Brien's smile was tight, barely reaching his eyes, and the only movement was that of Molly reaching up to scratch the tip of her nose. The soft wail gradually quietened and stopped.

"Uh…" said Julian.

Keiko moved into view, brushing flour from her clothes and hands. Bashir saw a flash of anxiety behind her dark eyes, in the instant they made contact with his own. But it quickly disappeared behind the practised calm of a hostess greeting a regular dinner guest. Passing them by, she slapped her husband on the arm. "Where are your manners?" she whispered, and smiled.

"It's nice to see you, Julian. Come on in."

Dinner was an odd affair, with much of the conversation being entirely dependant on the changing moods of Molly O'Brien. She started off strangely exuberant, even jumping several times from her seat to fetch her most recent drawing, or special pink shoes, and finally her new doll. ("Nerys gave her to me. Her name's Lupi. You like her?")

At the fourth and final attempted escape, her father grabbed her by the arm and whispered in her ear. "Remember what we talked about?" She settled down, but grew decidedly moody, folding her arms across her chest and scowling at her pinafore as though the line of tiny stitches along its hem had somehow done something to offend her.

"She gets it from her father," Keiko whispered from across the table. Bashir noted with surprise that his own smile was barely forced at all.

He wondered, as he often did in secret, whether he could have gotten married himself - possibly raised a family. The thought of two or three little Bashirs running underfoot, chatting raucously to each other about all the peculiarly mundane things that children find to chatter about, coming to him whenever they scraped their knees or bumped their heads, or even just wanted a cuddle - for a moment it all seemed unbearably appealing. He'd always told people that he wasn't the type, or that he'd forgone the possibility of children for the sake of his career. But the truth was, too often the dream of a family seemed as much beyond his reach as any other.

Miles must have caught a glimpse of something in his eyes, because his next words were far too overtly cheerful. "So, are we gonna eat, uh? Who's hungry?"

"I am," said Molly, apparently rousing herself from her earlier huff.

"It smells delicious," Bashir assured Keiko. "Honestly, you didn't have to…"

"Oh, nonsense. I enjoy cooking. And it's not often we have guests."

"No, really. I'm sure…"

"It's all right." O'Brien dismissed the budding apology with a wave of his hand. "Tuck in, everyone. There's more than enough to go around. Isn't there?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Keiko.

_They're watching me_, thought Bashir. _Trying not to make it obvious, but they're noting every move I make_. He lifted a ball of steaming white rice, held it up particularly for their benefit, and breathed upon it to cool it down. Warm, moist air found its way to the top of his throat before the first mouthful. It was delicious, somehow cooked exactly right. But his muscles resisted slightly as he forced himself to swallow.

After just five mouthfuls, his stomach already felt uncomfortably full, his chest as tight as their conversation. Keiko had begun to fill in the lengthy silence with news of her upcoming trip to Bajor. "You should come with us," she assured Bashir. "We could always use somebody with a good working knowledge of exobiology."

_A cushy research job_, Bashir thought with some distaste, before reminding himself that such an assessment wasn't at all fair. There was nothing cushy about the kind of research expeditions Keiko was involved in. He sighed. "Thanks for the offer, but I still have to be on Earth for… ah… the trial."

He looked down at his plate of barely touched tempura and rice. Seeing that even Molly was staring at him now, he sighed, and managed a wan smile. "Well. Thank you for a lovely meal." He slapped the table and made as if to stand.

"Hey." O'Brien pointed him back to his seat. "You. Stay. There. You're not leaving until we know that you've enjoyed yourself. I promised Doctor Hayes a full report, and you know I'm a man of my word."

Feeling more weary than he had since leaving the Infirmary, Bashir sagged in his chair. "A report?" he despaired. "What, are you two spying on me now?"

"Mommy?" said Molly, her voice high and plaintive. "Why…?"

"Not now, honey," Keiko whispered.

O'Brien simply shrugged. "You'd have done the same for me, several times over. And besides, what are friends for?"

* * *

Oh Seven Hundred, Hayes had said. Bashir would have risen far earlier than that - for lack of sleep as much as anything - if it hadn't been for the tall Bajoran nurse appearing regularly at his bedroom door.

_Suicide watch. The doctor's words replayed in his mind, shifting and mingling with those of Admiral Bennet. He'd heard Nurse Bandee checking on him several times during the night, and every one of those times he'd lain very still and focused on slowing his breathing to the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. At least he'd been allowed back to his own quarters. But somehow it just didn't feel private. The longed for rest continued to elude him._

Any one of the Engineering crew could easily have set up monitoring devices in the walls and ceiling. But he suspected that Hayes thought it would be far too easy for him to seek them out and remove them without anyone even realising they were gone. _Perhaps he's right_, Julian thought, sensing seconds tick into minutes, minutes into hours. But as it was, there had been no such devices to find.

When he felt that the morning had crawled towards a respectable hour, he rolled to the edge of his bed and sat up, wearily setting two bare feet upon the floor. He rubbed his face with the palm of one hand and took a moment to flex his aching muscles. "Computer, time," he mumbled.

"The time is Oh Six Twenty Five."

He nodded. "Of course it is."

There was still half an hour to go - time enough for a quick sonic shower, and to do something about the stubble that had found its way onto his face. His minder had disappeared, but Bashir was not fooled for a moment. _Nathan's testing me_, he thought. _To see if I'll show. Clever_. He glanced through the window at the constant star scape, wondering if he could possibly get away with _not_…

_Several days ago, he'd asked Miles to leave him be, wanting nothing more than quiet and solitude - to shut himself away from everything save for that dark, speckled void._

Best not to risk it. Setting his jaw, he adjusted the hem of his shirt and turned away to face the world.


	4. The Measure of a Man

**"**_**If you prick me, do I not bleed**_**?"**

**(Shakespeare's _Merchant of Venice_)**

* * *

"Greetings, Doctor." A hand slapped his back with such force that he felt it in the bones of his teeth. Still smarting a little from the blow, Bashir looked around to discover the heavily scarred and monopthalamic visage of the Klingon General, Martok.

He offered the general a wary smile. "I'm not a doctor any more," he pointed out.

Martok responded with a grunt of annoyance, and waved the comment away like he was swatting a bug. "A mere technicality, my friend. And what are technicalities to men such as us? Now, to business. My wife, Sirella, is a prideful woman, but also extremely generous. She has sent me a crate of the finest quality gagh in the Quadrant. There's none better to be had between here and the Empire."

Bashir swallowed, hoping he did not sound or appear as green-faced as he felt. "Gagh."

"That's right." The general's single blue eye regarded him with a level stare.

"But what does that have to do with me?"

"I'd have thought that part would be obvious," grumbled Martok. "A full crate of quality gagh, as fresh and squirming as it comes, and nobody to share it with? Come. You must join me."

_It's far too early_… Bashir despaired, and struggled to hold back a groan. "But surely, Worf…"

"I dined with Worf yesterday. Today, I wish to dine with you."

Bashir forced a smile. "I'd love to join you…"

"Then it's settled. Come."

"But… _But_…" He took a deep breath. "I'm already late for an appointment."

"Lunch, then." Martok nodded to himself, and slapped Bashir's arm. He was halfway along the Promenade by the time the bewildered young man could find the voice to respond.

* * *

"You're late," Doctor Hayes scolded as he looked up from a slender grey padd.

"By all of three minutes and thirty three seconds." Bashir heaved a sigh when he saw the older man's questioning stare. "Genetically engineered, remember?"

"Of course." Hayes motioned in the direction of the examination room. "Shall we?"

By the time the new doctor had finally begun to stash away all the scanning equipment and make some last minute adjustments to his notes, Bashir was aching from lack of movement. He felt there wasn't a single part of him that hadn't been weighed, measured, scanned, re-scanned, and poked so frequently that he was certain that he would bruise by lunch time. "How was dinner?" asked Hayes, shining the same flashing light into each of Julian's eyes.

"It was fine." Hayes finally turned the light off, and Bashir took a few moments to blink away the afterimage. "But I'm sure you'll hear all about it in Chief O'Brien's 'report'. Are we done?"

"Almost…" Setting his medical case to one side, Doctor Hayes turned back to face him. "You realise I was about to send someone after you?"

Bashir rolled his eyes. "All right. I'm sorry. If you must know, I ran into General Martok on the Promenade."

"Martok?" said Hayes, cocking his head slightly and frowning. "What did _he_ want?"

"Apparently he wants to share a crate of fresh gagh with me."

At this, a lopsided grin crept up one side of Hayes' mouth. "Good."

"Good?" Bashir raised his eyebrows. "Do I have this entirely wrong or are you about to be the first doctor outside of the Klingon Empire _ever_ to prescribe gagh?"

Hayes chuckled. "Plenty of protein. It's good to see your mood's improving, anyway."

"Does that mean I don't have to go to counselling?"

"Don't push your luck."

Standing upright, Bashir cast a questioning glance at his orange and indigo hospital gown. He recalled for a moment how the colours, slender lines, and even the rounded necklines of Bajoran Infirmary garb had made his friend Garak cringe in disgust. The Cardassian tailor cum possible spy may have had disputable taste in literature, but his opinion on hospital garments was one which Julian Bashir wholeheartedly shared.

"So _are_ we…?"

Hayes nodded, then grinned at his patient's expression of unparalleled relief. "You can get dressed."

But before Bashir could vanish into the privacy booth, he called out again. "Tell me something, Julian."

The younger man turned. "What's that?"

"Are all my patients going to be as difficult as you?"

Memories flashed through Julian's mind, of Miles, Kira, Odo, Garak, even Sisko. He cast his most earnest gaze at DS9's new doctor. "Not at all," he replied. "Often, they're worse."

* * *

"You're right," the counsellor told him after fifteen minutes of loaded pauses, broken only occasionally by yet another question and a short, perfunctory answer. "I've never seen the inside of a prison camp. I _don't_ know what it's like. But you can tell me."

Bashir frowned. "It was like… a prison camp. A lot of crowds. A lot of Jem'Hadar. Why are we bringing this up again?"

_Grey. And coldly ominous. Mildew in every corner. Never enough food. The guards had been quick to discover that simply beating Julian was not enough to make him as compliant as they would have liked. They forced him to watch in impotent silence as others around him were beaten instead with fists, feet and guns._

"Because you haven't really talked much about it, have you? Not even in your official report."

"No, really. It was boring. There's practically nothing to tell."

_The slackening horror on the face of one Cardassian as his cold grey body floated into the sterile void of space. The helpless shock of his Romulan cellmate, when he realised that his end had come. The weak, thready pulse just beneath the chest of Enabran Tain as strength and power faded slowly into nothing. Garak's steady, pleading voice. "Father, you're dying." That one secret, he'd at least been able to keep._

He resisted an urge to rub the fatigue from his eyes. "Can we please change the subject?"

Counsellor Dion studied him silently, eyes slightly narrowed. "Alright." She nodded. "When do you go to Earth?"

Well, he'd asked for it. "The _Ariadne_ leaves tomorrow."

"That doesn't give you a lot of time."

"I don't need a lot of time."

At this, a glint of amusement crept into the counsellor's blue-grey eyes. Bashir held back a scowl.

"Your father was asking after you," she told him, suddenly serious again.

The young man felt his muscles tense. "Was he?"

She leaned forward, fingers locked across one knee. "Don't worry, Julian. I'm not going to force you to talk to him. But I really think you should."

_Landscape architecture, interior design… Genetic recoding. It was all the same. The son of Richard and Amsha Bashir had just been another in a long line of failed "projects". Something to be evaluated, taken apart, and reassembled like a faulty old machine_.

When she did not receive a reply, the counsellor settled back into her chair. "No rush," she said. "It's a good two week's journey. You can always call your parents once you get there."

* * *

The atmosphere in the counsellor's office had been cramped and stifling, a good ten degrees warmer than he liked. He made no mention of the heat - there was little point in offering the woman any more words to twist into whatever shape she wanted. But the whole experience had left him feeling flushed and exhausted.

The Promenade was more crowded than it usually was at that time of the day. But Bashir paused, breathing deeply, and held onto the momentary chance at least to imagine that he was free to move. The bustle of activity soon faded into the background. There was a smell of spices in the air, and if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he could even believe that no-one was watching. No more unwelcome distractions.

Then he remembered General Martok.


	5. Of Gagh and Conversation

**"**_**How many lives have you saved in your medical career**_**? … **_**Hundreds**_**? **_**Thousands**_**? **_**Do you think any of those people give a damn that you lied to get into Starfleet Medical**_**?"**

**(Luther Sloan, _Inquisition_)**

* * *

To his utter astonishment, there were two faces waiting to greet him as the door to the general's quarters slid smoothly open.

"This is the tale you would tell to your children?" A familiar voice had been saying. "And I thought Human stories were graphic."

"Ah, Doctor," exclaimed Garak, smiling in his direction. Bashir was surprised to find that the greeting wasn't nearly as disturbing as it might have been on the previous day.

"Apparently he's no longer a doctor," Martok interrupted with a searching glare. "So for just this moment, I will not be a general."

"And I," announced the blue eyed Cardassian just as fiercely. "Am most definitely not a tailor."

"Nor any of those other things, I suppose." Bashir could not hold back an automatic jest.

"You are absolutely right. Although I have not been a gardener for a _very_ long time."

For a moment, the corridor filled with Martok's laughter. Such open mirth was peculiarly contagious, and there was a hint of a smile in Garak's eyes as well. "Good," the Klingon bellowed. "Then we are just three comrades about to share a good meal. Now are you going to quit standing in that doorway like a bewildered targ or do I have to come out there and get you?"

Raising his hands as a token of surrender, Bashir stepped through the door. But when they took their places at the table, he found that his stomach was squirming every bit as much as Martok's gagh. Several of the slender, red-bellied worms appeared to be rising up to greet him.

"Well this is certainly pleasant enough," remarked Garak. "The three of us coming together, sharing a most… interesting lunch…"

The touch of mischief in his smile was unmistakeable. "And it was well worth accepting the invitation, just to see the look on your face when you saw that I was here."

"I must admit, it did surprise me," the former doctor confessed. "I never realised you were partial to Klingon food."

"A life in exile may not be wholly pleasant. But it does leave a man open to new adventures, which he might otherwise never have thought to experience."

He cast a meaningful glance in his good friend's direction, causing Bashir to suspect that the Cardassian was talking about more than just himself.

"Perhaps so." Looking down, Bashir pushed his meal thoughtfully around his plate. He sensed even before returning his attention to them that there was silence at the table. With a barely audible sigh, he leant back and dropped the handful that had already been wriggling in his fingers. _Miles, Jadzia, even Garak_… What could possibly await him on Earth that was worth leaving them all behind?

"What exactly is the Federation so afraid of?" he continued softly, staring at an old stain on the table's otherwise blank surface. "That I'm good with numbers? That I can defeat Chief O'Brien at darts? What exactly do they think I'm going to _do_ to them all?"

He glanced up, first with just his eyes, but finally lifted his head to face them. Just as he suspected, his companions were watching. _Well_? he thought. _Say something_. He had never known either of them to be without an opinion, and their unblinking, blue eyed stares pierced him to the core. But then he realised, he knew exactly why they weren't speaking. It was because, deep down, they saw that he'd always known the answer to his own question. That ever since Adigeon Prime, he had never been quite _normal_.

"Never mind. Forget I said anything."

Again, the silence was broken by Garak. "When do you leave?" he asked, as usual cutting right to the heart of the matter.

"Tomorrow."

"Will you be seeing your family?"

"I hope not." Bashir surprised himself at the sudden bitter edge to his voice. He paused to allow himself two deep breaths. When next he spoke, his words were much calmer, although not quite as steady as he would have liked. "That is, I suspect that I will. Most of them will come for the trial, and some have offered to let me stay with them while I'm there. It's just, I'd rather not…"

"That is not good," Martok commented with a shake of his head. He'd dropped the food back onto his plate, and fixed his staring eye on their exchange since the moment when Garak had first brought up Julian's parents. "If a man cannot seek the companionship of his family, then what else does he have left?"

"You sound just like Counsellor Dion. Hayes isn't having you two report on me as well, is he?"

The two men exchanged a look of genuine puzzlement. "My dear doctor." Garak slipped easily into the old familiar expression. "I'd have thought after all our lunches together, you'd know me better than that. Even if he had, do you honestly believe that I would tell him the truth?"

"What is shared among friends is not for outside ears," announced Martok with no small amount of wounded pride.

"I'm sorry," Julian backtracked. "I didn't mean to offend."

"No offence taken, my friend," the one eyed general assured him. "It is those who made the decision who should be sorry. They are the ones who have acted without honour. Come. You have barely touched your meal."

Allowing the general's words to settle in his thoughts, Bashir stared down at his plate. "I don't suppose it matters what happens now, anyway," he said. "As far as I can tell, I died when I was six, at the hospital on Adigeon Prime."

"Well - I must say," interjected Garak. "For a dead man, you talk a lot."

"_Ha_," said Martok. His single eye glistened with good humour. Even Bashir managed a faint smile.

"If you say so."

* * *

It was Garak who suggested that his friend accompany him back to the tailor shop. Finding himself with no reason to refuse, Bashir nodded, and both men bid the general a pleasant farewell. They were silent on the way to the turbolift, happy in each other's company, but it had never been in Garak's nature to resist the chance for a conversation.

"You know," he began, as the lift slowed towards its destination, and he continued as they stepped onto the Promenade. "I must confess. When we first met, I thought I had you figured out in less than a week. It never occurred to me that someone so young and… _talkative_ could possibly be keeping secrets."

Bashir paused and glanced sidelong at his companion, wondering on what conversational track the station's resident Cardassian spy could be leading him now. "I remember," he said.

"Tell me, Doctor." Garak strode two paces ahead, and turned to face him head on. "That brash young man from five years ago - was he _really _Julian Bashir, or was that all just an act?"

Bashir realised that he was frowning, staring at some undefined point just centimetres beyond the railing. "Perhaps…" he mused. "He may have been a little of both."

They continued their slow amble along the Promenade.

"So are you saying that it is possible to be genetically engineered, and _still_ have so little idea about how the universe works?"

"There's no gene for experience, Garak."

"No, I don't suppose there is." Both men stopped again at the entrance to Garak's shop, where he watched Bashir with a steady, searching gaze. A smile had started in his eyes and was now spreading to the corners of his mouth. "All that time, and you never told a soul." The blue eyed tailor actually chuckled. "You know, my friend. I do believe…"

"…There's hope for me yet?"

"I'm glad you think so." With a brisk nod, Garak turned and stepped away through the tailor shop door.

* * *

It was late in the evening by the time Bashir returned to his quarters, feeling secretly more than a little weary. Restless and agitated, he'd sat at the replimat since lunch and watched the crowds of myriad aliens pass him by until he finally leapt from his seat and began to pace the length of the station's more deserted corridors.

He was not naïve enough to think that his wanderings would go unnoticed. But luckily, the only other person he did happen upon was Morn - possibly on his way to or from Quark's. Bashir sidestepped quickly past before he could be dragged into any lengthy conversations.

His own quarters were a third of the way down the dimly lit corridor. And he quickly saw that - yes - he was not alone.

"Do you _really_ have to be here tonight?" he asked the pale faced nurse who'd shown up at his door. He imagined handfuls of gagh beginning to squirm at the base of his intestines.

"You know I do, Doc--" Janet Thompson flinched at her error. Any other time, Bashir reflected, he might have smiled at the way her normally steady, honeycomb-tinted gaze had so suddenly faltered. She was only new, after all - less than four years out of her teens - and every bit as nervous and excitable as he had been when the recently rechristened Deep Space Nine had been _his_ new assignment.

Remembering the eager anticipation of years past caused the weight to return to his shoulders. He longed still more for the comforting familiarity of his quarters, and sighed. "It's all right, Janet. No need to explain." Keying in his personal security code, he allowed her to proceed first through the door. "Help yourself to the replicator. I have to freshen up."

He stepped into the next room, where he leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes, momentarily grateful that at least he could achieve the _illusion_ of peace and solitude. _She__'__s being awfully quiet, though_. He glanced to his left. He doubted that even Thompson would have willingly left him alone for so long.

"But you know what they say on Risa," he called, hoping to elicit some kind of response. "All that is mine, is yours."

"That's good to hear," said a voice from the shadows - a clear although slightly nasal tenor. Decidedly _not_ Nurse Thompson.

Chill dread surged along the underside of Bashir's skin even before he called for the lights. In an instant, he had taken in the likeness of the man sitting calmly in his bedroom chair. Average height, average build, although ever so slightly pale. Fingers, pressed together at the tips, held thoughtfully against his mouth. Right leg folded - a little too deliberately casual - over his left. His hair was ginger-brown, although nowhere near the fiery copper of Doctor Hayes'. Close cut, Bashir noted, and swept back with a subtle cowlick where it was receding a little at the temples.

Humourless smile. Tight cheeks. Unblinking, level gaze.

_Don't trust him_.

"I wouldn't bother calling for help," the stranger informed him without any sign of hesitation. "You'll find that the comm lines are down, and your… uh… guest - Miss Thompson, was it? - is otherwise indisposed."

He rose to his feet, every movement deliberate and calculated. "So, we finally meet," he commented.

"Finally?"

"We've been following your career for some years, Doctor, ever since we first learnt about your little… deviance, shall we say?"

"For starters, that's impossible." Fighting to keep a tremor from his voice, Bashir stepped forward.

"Because you thought that nobody could have known until a week ago?" The stranger shook his head in apparent disappointment. "And they said you were an intelligent man."

"Am I supposed to be impressed because you discovered a record in some archive, somewhere? How do I even know you're telling the truth?"

"Oh, believe me, the people we got this information from are not the kind to keep records," the man responded. "Starfleet Medical, on the other hand, that's an entirely different story. Let's see… Bashir, Julian. Born August 2341, by old Earth reckoning. Graduated second in your class. Specifically requested the posting to Deep Space Nine because you _claimed_ to be interested in 'frontier medicine'. Awarded a commendation in that same year for saving the lives of three Federation ambassadors. Although incidentally, two out of three of those same ambassadors were among the first to denounce you. Were you aware of that?"

"I was, actually." Bashir swallowed back a steadily tightening knot in his throat.

"So much for gratitude," the man went on. He continued to tick each point off on his fingers as though merely reciting a list of requisitions. "Let's see. What else? Youngest ever nominee for the Carrington Award, which went to… Doctor Roget, if I'm not mistaken. Received another commendation for your role in maintaining the field hospital on Ajilon Prime. Captured and imprisoned at Dominion Internment Camp 371..."

With that last comment, his voice slowed and he gazed back up at Bashir, seeming to search every part of his face. "And need I even mention, you ended up in the same barracks as several men who were already known to you. Tain, Martok, Worf, Garak… What are the odds?"

"Two thousand, three hundred and twenty to one," Bashir replied automatically. "Give or take a half dozen or so."

"Ah. I see you've already given the matter some thought."

"Perhaps I have. So what?"

"Oh, and it appears that your former girlfriend has finally decided to return this." The intruder took something from a nearby table and held it up to the light. Julian's teddy bear. Leeta had borrowed him while they were still dating. "Guess she figured you'd need it more than her, especially since… well, you know."

Anger rose from the depths of Julian's gut. _So you know my career history_, he wanted to say. _So what_?_ Leave Kukalaka out of it_. But he pushed his feelings down as far as they would go, and pictured himself locking them away behind a heavily bolted door. He had no desire to let this man see that he'd touched on something personal.

Folding his arms across his chest, he returned the stranger's cold stare. "I don't have time for this." he told him. "It's already been a long day, and I'm supposed to be on a transport tomorrow. So if you have something to say to me, make it quick."

"Ah," said the man. "You see, that's where we run into a problem."

"What do you mean?" demanded Bashir, but with a terrible suspicion that he already knew.

"We need you here," the reply was simple. There was a cold pressure of something pressed against the base of Julian's neck, followed by the unmistakeable hiss of a hypospray. "I'm afraid we can't allow you to return to Earth."


	6. Phantoms

**"**_**There is no gene for fate**_**."**

**(_Gattaca_)**

**(Trivia Note: The four basic proteins of every genetic sequence are Guanine G, Adenine A, Thymine T, and Cytosine C.)**

* * *

"Can you hear me, Julian?"

…_Nathan_?

His head throbbed painfully, as if something tight and unyielding had been wrapped around his skull. Weight pressed down upon his chest. His entire body felt numb and desiccated, hands cold and tingling at his sides as, with all the strength he could muster, he willed his reticent arms to move.

They wouldn't.

"Julian."

Panic surged through him. For a brief, terrifying moment he wondered if he was paralysed, or even comatose. But if he was, then surely the voice he'd heard would be talking about him, not to him. _Fear means adrenaline_, some inner voice whispered at the back of his mind. _Use that_.

Eyelids fluttering open. Eyes prickled as though with needles, still rolling back into his head…

_Follow your senses_.

"That's it," said the voice of Hayes. His touch was firm on Bashir's arm. "Good. Now you're getting there."

A dry, ticklish feeling brushed against the back of his throat, so that his first attempt at speech came as little more than a series of ragged, wheezing coughs.

"What…?" he finally managed to say.

"You tell me," Hayes scolded, his voice suddenly hard. "Cyterlin? That's practically a poison, Julian. Another hour could have killed you. Although I suppose we should be grateful that you didn't use such a strong dosage on Nurse Thompson as you did with yourself."

_What_?

One deep gasp. And a second. Clouds slowly banished by a rising tide of oxygen.

Nathan Hayes was leaning over him, still slightly out of focus, with his mouth set into a grim line. There was something in his hand. Another hypo. _But what would Hayes be doing in my quarters_? Julian asked himself. And then there were memories forcing their way to the surface.

"That man…"

Hayes' frown deepened. "What man?"

"There must have been another one." Pushing through the sudden attack of grey that threatened to swamp the edges of his vision, Bashir struggled to seat himself upright. He rested his head against the nearest wall and waited for the giddiness to pass - determined that this time, it would not claim him. But as he turned to study the same patch of floor where the stranger had stood, there was no evidence that anyone had even been there.

_He had to have been somewhere where I couldn't have seen him_,he thought. _And they drugged me so that they could make a getaway. But _why…?

Rubbing his head where it ached the most, he turned back to Hayes. "You don't believe me…"

_Of course he doesn't_. Bashir's innermost thoughts were tinged with bitterness. _Listen to yourself, ranting on about men who sneak into your quarters and disappear in the dead of night_._ They probably knew that no-one would believe you. They were most likely counting on it_.

And he could have quoted centuries of studies on the subject. Once a person was labelled as insane or unstable, there was very little that could be done to convince anybody otherwise. Ten times more so if they were known to have undergone such extensive genetic tampering.

It was more than his heaving stomach could handle. "Uh oh," said Nathan, and suddenly there was a basin in his lap, and the doctor was supporting him with one arm firmly around his shoulders. Stomach acid burned in his mouth and nose, and the smell of partially digested Klingon food caused the muscles of his throat and abdomen to clench all over again, until there was nothing left but to continue dry-retching over the stinking residue of his own humiliation.

He could taste the thin, acrid coating of bile, and gasped between spasms. Hayes' supporting arm remained around his shoulders, but - illogically, perhaps - Julian silently cursed him for being there at all. _Breathe_, he urged himself. _Just breathe_. But he was too exhausted, too abused. Too much valuable air had been forced from his lungs, and he could no longer fight the rising oblivion.

* * *

Bashir's head dropped forward, his body slack and suddenly quiet. Placing the container on the floor with one hand, Hayes used his other to lower him gently onto the bed, and made sure to remember to turn him onto his side. He performed a quick scan - enough to ascertain that the young man really _had_ simply fainted this time - and quickly disposed of the contents of the portable basin. They shimmered out of existence, now just a shapeless collection of atoms. But their smell lingered like a persistent ghost. And now, he had a patient to see to.

The first priority now was to get to the Infirmary, and get some fluid to the young man's system. Julian Bashir's hair was rough and tangled, his face ash-pale. Loss of weight had left him compromised, and Hayes did not doubt that he'd known how this would exacerbate the drug's effect. "That's it," he scolded, as if Julian could hear his words. "You're staying where I can keep an eye on you."

* * *

Soft pressure of another palm against his own. It was cold to the touch. He forced his dry and aching eyes to open a little way, and there was her face - one that he would never tire of seeing as long as he still lived.

_Jadzia_.

"Hi," she said.

He swallowed, taking a moment to find where he'd misplaced his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Actually." Dax glanced to one side and stammered a little through her reply. "The truth is, I came with Worf. My injuries turned out to be slightly worse than his this time, and I think he's still being treated now."

A rumble of annoyance filtered through from the adjacent room. She smiled, and even appeared to blush a little. "We were…"

"I get the picture," Julian hastened to say. He started to cough.

Dax's expression quickly changed. "Here." She handed him a glass of water, and propped him up just enough to allow him to drink. "But how are _you_?" she asked as soon as he was done.

"I'm fine," he replied automatically. But she didn't seem very reassured.

Bashir attempted to lever himself upright, ignoring the shifting ripples that passed briefly in front of his eyes. For now, he needed a steady, unflinching gaze. But Dax held him down with a gentle hand upon his chest. "Easy, Julian," she said, and he gave in.

He pushed away all outward signs of fatigue, and forced himself to look into her eyes. "I didn't do it, Jadzia," he said. "Not this time. I know you don't have any reason to believe me, but it's true."

"You should rest…"

"No," he told her, feeling ever so slightly annoyed. "This is important. There was a man in my quarters. I think there may even have been two. I'll get all the rest you want soon enough. But promise me you'll at least check."

"I will," Dax promised, and her expression hardened when she saw the scepticism on his face. "I _will_. Now go to sleep."

"Thank you." Bashir relaxed a little, speaking in a soft whisper, and closed his eyes. Perhaps sleep wasn't such a bad idea after all. He really had been so tired…

Strange, that feeling halfway between floating and sinking, limbs and muscles weighted down and drowsy. He could still feel Dax's steady hand upon his own. "You're a good friend," he thought he was telling her. Although there was a chance he may have only dreamt it.

And for the moment at least, he slept.


	7. Remembering the Shadow

**"**_**The figure of the tyrant-monster is known to the mythologies, folk traditions, legends, and even nightmares, of the world; and his characteristics are everywhere essentially the same**_**."**

**(Joseph Campbell, _The Hero with a Thousand Faces_.)**

* * *

According to some more entrenched members of DS9's senior staff - Hayes had touched on the subject already with Dax, Sisko, Kira; and even Bashir had mentioned it once or twice during their initial tour of the station - meetings in the wardroom had recently been settling into a distinctly familiar pattern. Gather, exchange greetings, find a seat, and begin to discuss what little news had reached them from Cardassia Prime, and what new doom would be awaiting them around the next corner once the Dominion managed to strengthen its forces.

Nathan had held his new post for just over a week. He had very little experience with the various exotic species that would congregate on Deep Space Nine. But he'd seen a good twenty years of Starfleet service, and hostile aliens were as familiar to him as the now well established daily routine. He could still recall his most recent encounter - earlier that year and in a place far closer to home.

_A bone-chilling, impersonal voice had hijacked the fleet's communications channel. Hayes waited, surrounded by the other doctors, nurses, med-techs and assorted well-known faces, and listened from the quiet fortress of sickbay. Every face around him was equally tense and grim. One of his younger interns had been trembling. She saw him watch, and clenched her hands so tightly that their knuckles turned to circles of pale creamy white._

_It was the voice of the Collective. _Soon_, Hayes had thought. Soon the consoles would be exploding all around them, and there would be wounded. Battlefield triage. The stench of scorched metal and burning flesh._

_Almost like the barbecues his extended family still held every year back home, if the meat in this instance had not been humanoid…_

"_Honestly?" he'd told Bashir a little over a month later, strolling beside him and glancing all the way around at the dim, foreboding corridors. "I've never even seen a Jem'Hadar."_

_For a moment, his companion had stopped. The expression on his face was difficult to interpret. "You'll get your chance," he said, simply. And the soft tone of his voice had sent a chill through Hayes' already slightly aching spine._

_So what do you do when your safe, sane universe collapses around you_? He found the answer without hesitation_. Throw yourself into your work, push all thoughts to the back of your mind, and pray like Hell that the memories don't haunt your dreams._

* * *

As they rose to leave, gathering scattered notes and disconnecting computer displays, Sisko stepped forward to seize the attention of Nathan Hayes. "Doctor?" The question in his eyes was clear.

It was then that Hayes realised the others had also stopped where they were, faces turned towards him like guided torpedos. He wasn't at all surprised. They'd been casting subtle glances in his direction ever since the meeting began.

_They're worried about their friend_.

"He'll be fine," Hayes assured them. "With time."

But there were other important questions still plaguing his own thoughts. "Captain, I'd like a word in private, if I may?"

The shade of anxiety returned to the captain's dark eyes. But he nodded.

* * *

"It's about Do-- it's about Julian, isn't it?" said Captain Sisko, wasting no time as soon as the room was clear of onlookers.

Hayes nodded, clenching his jaw. "I have to be honest, Sir. I'm more than a little concerned."

"That he might try the same thing again?"

"To be perfectly blunt, yes." The middle aged doctor steeled himself for the question he knew he would have to ask. "You've known him a lot longer than I have, Captain. Has he ever shown any signs of… irrational behaviour…? You know. Before?"

"No more than any other overly eager, headstrong young officer." Sisko studied the doctor's face. "You're asking me if I think he's dangerous. Like Khan."

"I wouldn't go that far," Hayes assured him. "But I _have_ taken the liberty of contacting an old friend from my intern days at the Academy. Doctor Athena Nikos. To the best of my knowledge, she's the closest thing the Federation has to an expert on the effects of - um - genetic resequencing."

Sisko suddenly looked incredibly tired, and rubbed the smooth, hairless surface of his skull. "Do whatever you have to, Nathan. But to answer your question. No, I do not think that Julian is mentally or emotionally unsound. A little erratic, perhaps. Downright infuriating at times. But not unstable."

"Except that the next time he tries to poison himself, he might just succeed." The doctor frowned, wondering briefly how much of his last comment had even been directed at Sisko. "That's not a risk I'm willing to take."

* * *

"You're supposed to be resting," Hayes accused Bashir as he strode back into the Infirmary.

"I'm _supposed_ to be on a transport to Earth." The young man was frowning, distracted. He sat cross legged at one end of the biobed, hunched over a padd in his lap with a stylus in one hand and a sharp, intense expression in his eyes. He was not as pale as he had been earlier that morning, but Hayes still worried.

"Regarding that," he said, keeping for the moment to what he hoped would be a safer topic. "I've spoken to the judge presiding over your parents' trial, and arranged for you to testify via subspace instead."

He was even more disconcerted to see Bashir look up, and the lines on his forehead deepen. "I'm not going to Earth after all?"

"Well… No." Hayes felt his own brow tense slightly. "I don't understand. You aren't…?"

He snuck a glance at what was on Bashir's padd - a composite picture of a forty-, or possibly fifty-something year old man, with sharp creases all the way down his cheeks, and ginger brown hair brushed back away from his eyes.

Julian noticed, and set the padd to one side. "It's just something…" he began, but his voice trailed away, and he sighed. "Forget it. It's not important."


	8. The Most Lingering Echoes

**"**_**Rumour is a dangerous thing, light and easy to pick up, but hard to support and difficult to be rid of. No rumour ever dies that many folk rumour. She too is somehow a goddess**_**."**

**(Hesiod, _Theogeny_.)**

* * *

Janet Thompson had been released to her quarters early on the previous morning, but also given strict instructions that she wasn't to return to work for at least another day and a half. Julian longed to ask after her, so badly that his chest ached. But with every attempt, the muscles in his throat clenched with a pain like they'd been crushed under solid ice.

He'd been reading the letter that his good friend Felix had attached to the latest one of his holosuite programmes. "_Something to cheer up my very best customer_," it read. "_For when they finally let you out for some R and R_._ So, are you telling the sexy counsellor all about this spy obsession of yours, or haven't you gotten around to that part yet_?"

Bashir thought about sending a reply - something about already having more "R and R" than he knew what to do with. He continued to scroll through the list of characters, storylines, and occasional tips on how to get away with stealing the arch villain's girl. And there, at the very bottom, was a note that made him catch his breath and want to smash the padd against the farthest wall. "_P.S. I heard about what happened. Tough break_."

Movement on the edge of his vision snatched his attention away. Nurse Thompson stood a mere three or four strides distant, entirely engrossed - a little _too_ engrossed, he could not stop himself from thinking - in an inventory of assorted medical supplies.

She sensed him watching her, and turned to glance his way. "How are you feeling, Sir?" she asked curtly.

"I'm fine," he said. "You?"

There was a momentary flash of anger behind her honey-brown eyes. Bashir felt the pain of it hit him in the chest, just as if she'd reached out and punched him. But when she spoke, Janet's voice was more hurt than scornful. She looked away. "You should be resting, Sir." After a final uncomfortable pause, she turned back to frown at her half complete inventory.

A sound at the door, and he looked in time to see Counsellor Dion standing in the entrance, hands concealed behind the arch of her back. _Oh, wonderful_. A too familiar weight returned to the base of his stomach. He set his friend's letter aside, hoping that she hadn't noticed their tense exchange, but at the same time suspecting that she had.

"How do you feel?" she asked, settling into a nearby chair as soon as the dark-haired nurse had excused herself from the room.

"Terrific. Never better."

To her credit, she gave no sign of having even noticed the hostility in his voice. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"I didn't do it."

"O_-kay_." She nodded, again giving nothing away. "Then let's talk about this man you think you saw."

"I didn't _think_ I saw him. He was _there_." All the anger he'd been keeping inside rose suddenly into his voice, and he could hardly keep himself from shouting. "He was sitting in my room, just as surely as you're sitting there now. Oh, what's the point?" Head lowered, Bashir locked his fingers tightly against each other and banged the resulting two-handed fist against his knee.

"Julian." Her voice cut through the drawn out silence. He wanted to snarl at her to leave him alone, stop condescending to him, or at least let him know what she _really_ thought. But instead, he pushed his frustration all the way to the pit of his stomach, and forced himself to look directly into her eyes. Popular opinion already said that his kind were unstable, antisocial, prone to sudden emotional outbursts. He'd given her enough fuel to burn him with for one day.

Once she was certain that she had his attention, Lorraine Dion continued. "Julian, you should know. Your friend Dax checked every corner of your quarters. She couldn't find anything to suggest that anyone had been there - aside from yourself and Nurse Thompson of course. And Odo was just as unable to find a match for that composite you provided. Is it possible…?"

"No it is not _possible_ that I imagined the whole thing," he interrupted, fairly spitting the words. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it? That I made it all up? But what reason could I possibly have for hurting Janet? I'm a…"

He looked down at his hands, and suddenly realised that they had balled into a pair of tight fists. Releasing a little tension, he noted the series of slender crescent-shaped marks upon his palms. "I didn't do it," he whispered to the silent air. Even if no-one else believed him, he had to speak the words - if only to hold on to the idea, and keep from doubting it himself.

* * *

"Athena." Waiting at the airlock, Nathan Hayes clasped the new arrival's hands in both of his own. "It's good to see you again." His mouth tensed into the shape of a smile, which never quite spread to the rest of his face.

"It's good to see you too, Nathan." _He looks older, somehow. Or possibly battle-worn_. Doctor Athena Nikos sensed her own muscles tense in response to her friend's tight half smile. Her posting at Starfleet Medical had been almost entirely one of research and hospital work - trials of a very different kind. She had not had the same level of frontline experience as many of her more active colleagues.

"You know why I asked you here?" Hayes began.

"I got most of it from your last communication," she assured him, noting how instantly they'd stepped onto the much safer ground of professional discourse. Hayes had sent her a letter on the previous morning, outlining much of what had happened and requesting as politely as urgency would allow that she take the earliest possible chance to meet him on Deep Space Nine.

It had not been a surprise. She already knew a little about the young man who'd originally held Doctor Hayes' post, and there was barely a single person in her department who had not heard of the circumstances surrounding his dismissal. As they continued along the corridor, she noted the expression that had crept onto her own face - a frown that was strangely reluctant to disappear.

"Now," she said. "Tell me everything that I haven't already heard."


	9. Divergence

**"**_**The word you are looking for is **_**unnatural**_**, meaning 'not from nature'. Freak, or monster would also be acceptable**_**."**

**(Julian Bashir, _Doctor Bashir, I Presume_.)**

* * *

Bashir looked up, and focused immediately to a tall, slender woman entering the Infirmary just two steps behind Doctor Hayes. He noted the slightly olive hue of her skin, and her dark brown hair loosely wound into a bun at the top of her head. But there was something even more distinctive about her eyes - large, wide set, and an exotic shade of greyish green. "I remember you."

_Medical School. San Francisco. A hot, sultry October day. Moisture hovered thickly in the air, as if deciding to give the city's residents an extra reminder that the heat of Summer was not yet ready to release its hold. Junichiro Watanabe's students breathed a collective sigh of relief upon entering the foyer with its shady walls and soft, environmentally controlled breeze. Most of them were still in their twenties, some already anticipating their escape to the salt-tinged air and cooling waves of the beach, and several had started to fan themselves with stiff, grey datapads._

_There was a murmur of anticipation as they looked around in every direction, at the high, whitewashed ceiling with floral engravings stretched all the way along its edge, at the curious faces of their classmates, and finally back to their elderly Genetics professor, who had led them this far and still had yet to explain why._

_Eyebrows raised, Julian glanced mutely at his good friend Erit. Their exchange was brief, the Andorian's face barely readable although his antennae were propped upright like a pair of anxious sentinels._

_And then she entered. First time he saw her, the green eyed stranger had strode through a narrow door which, oddly enough, Bashir still remembered had been one of only a few that still swung open on old fashioned hinges. _Quaint_. Years later, he recalled the passing thought with surprising clarity._

"_Ah. Good," she'd said, sparing no time for greetings or introductions. "You're here. Follow me."_

* * *

"I remember you too." There was something oddly sculpted, a little too exact, about the woman's smile - as if she'd never quite found the time to accustom herself to the act of smiling. "Professor Watanabe once told me that you were one of his most promising students."

Bashir snorted. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Listen to me." Her eyes hardened as she crossed the floor to face him directly. "You haven't disappointed anyone, understand? No-one. At least, no-one whose opinion is worth the time it takes to listen. As far as I'm concerned, the Federation has been jumping at shadows for far too long. We're all so badly haunted by the ghost of Khan Singh, we've forgotten that the worst laws are made by sheltered politicians, with no real understanding of the people those laws are most likely to effect."

Allowing her just enough time to finish her soapbox speech, Bashir raised his head so as to be looking straight into her clear grey-green eyes. "With respect, Doctor," he said, hardly bothering to keep the weight from his voice. "Why are you here?"

* * *

"_Case number three five two." An image had appeared on a large screen in front of them. A youngish woman, but also quite tall. Ivory pale, dark eyed, with thick, gleaming waves of black hair falling evenly over her back and shoulders. Her face was smooth, expressionless. She probably appeared to be far more youthful than she really was, Julian reflected. Such lack of affect would have given her skin little chance to develop wrinkles. Calm brown eyes gazed silently at her hand, which stroked the arm of the chair where she sat - every movement impossibly slow and repetitive._

"_Female," Doctor Nikos continued. "Early thirties. No previously known history of brain injury or dysfunction. Chronically non-verbal. Minimal response to external stimuli. Possible diagnoses, anyone?"_

"_Some form of progressive dementia?" suggested one student from the front of the room._

No, _Julian thought, but kept his own counsel._

"_Viral infection?" hazarded another._

"_Low functioning Autistic?" From the opposite side of the lecture hall._

No. _Julian struggled to conceal the tightness in his chest_.

_Several more responses followed, and the doctor continued to shake her head. As their options dwindled, each guess became steadily more obscure and far-fetched. When one student suggested, "Telepathy?" Nikos finally raised her hand, and there was silence._

"_Perhaps, then," she continued. "You might be more familiar with this."_

_The screen split into two parts. One still showed the same unspeaking woman. But the image on the right was now of a man in his late fifties, with a well-muscled chest, hard-edged gaze, and slightly feathery, dull blonde hair. There were tense expressions, whispers of "Khan", and a hushed ripple of mumbled conversation. Julian squirmed._

_

* * *

_"I'm here," Nikos explained, her voice level. "Because your friends on the station were worried about you."

"So in other words," the young man challenged her, unable to push back the seeds of a sneer. "You're here to see if I should be locked up for good."

"Not necessarily…"

Feeling a tight and sudden pain in his forehead, Bashir rubbed it away. "Not meaning to be rude. But I've had just about enough. Nothing you say is going to make the slightest bit of difference, so _please_. Spare me the same tired old platitudes."

* * *

_There'd been time for questions, and several of Julian's classmates had been eager to take that chance. Several too many, Julian distinctly remembered thinking. Had anybody identified the specific DNA sequence associated with this type of effect? What kind of treatment had been considered, thought through, even tried? Did Doctor Nikos believe that there would ever be hope of a cure…?_

"_Right, then," said Professor Watanabe. "Looks like that's all for now, so would you join me in…?"_

"_Oh, I think we have time for one more question, don't you, Professor?" said the dark haired doctor._

_Their professor nodded, indicating with a sweep of his hand that it was entirely her choice. The woman's green eyes scanned the audience. "One more question," she offered._

_A hand went up at the back of the hall. It was Julian._

"_Did she mind that you were taping her?" he asked._

_Silence. He felt the stares of half the class upon him, but fixed his own gaze firmly on the woman at the front._

"_How would you even tell?" said another young student, sitting three seats along._

"_Well," the doctor replied, and rested a hand upon her lectern. "Usually, she communicates with signals, hand gestures, or through the use of a specially configured datapad."_

"_So she had a choice, then -" Julian persisted. "About the recording?"_

"…_And that really is all we have time for." With a slightly apologetic glance at his colleague, Professor Watanabe rose to his feet. "Let's thank Doctor Nikos for a most informative lecture."_

"_Very informative," whispered Julian Bashir, although careful to be sure that his voice never carried above the surrounding applause._


	10. Confession

**"**_**You're not genetically engineered. You're a Vulcan**_**."**

"**_If I'm a Vulcan then how do you explain my boyish smile_?"**

"**_Not so boyish any more_."**

**(Garak & Bashir, _A Time To Stand_.)**

* * *

"It's quite straightforward," explained the slightly anaemic, fair haired and balding man who peered at Bashir from the panel in front of him. "Have you testified at trial before?"

"Well… Yes," Bashir recalled. "Several times, actually." …Although there had been few instances where he could remember his stomach being so ready to leap out through his throat.

"Well _that's_ something anyway." The man took a moment to sort through his notes. "Really, it's nothing to worry about. Most of the questions will be about what you remember from your experience on Adigeon Prime. And the Prosecution may want to know a little about your medical career, not to mention what you have learnt about your own enhancements since then. But a lot of the scientific questions will be left to expert witnesses. The important thing to remember is, you are not the one on trial."

A flash of concern passed briefly across the man's pale features. "Do you think you'll be up to it?"

_No_.

Bashir nodded, throat dry, words trapped deep inside his chest.

The man's name was Horst Jenssen. A lawyer. His parents' lawyer. They'd been introduced a little over ten minutes ago. And he was calling on Julian to testify in their defence.

_He remembered high walls. White, possibly blue, or more likely something in between. Father's large hand had been tight around his own. Carpet muffled the child's jerky footsteps although he could not help feeling in later years that they should have echoed in the corridors of his memory._

"Good, good." Jenssen filed his stack of padds into a black leather case and clicked it shut. A thin attempt at a smile somehow only made him appear more ill. Bashir noted the man's initials, inlaid in gold leaf on the handle of his baggage.

"And now that's out of the way, shall I ask them in?"

_No. Oh, please. No_. But Julian forced himself to concede, and nodded again.

Rising from his seat, Jenssen nodded to another of his colleagues who'd been waiting just beyond the scope of the screen. There was a muffled voice - a woman's. "You can come in now."

They approached from stage left, where an unseen door hissed shut, and their middle aged lawyer stepped back to allow them a place in the foreground. Dark creases lined the skin beneath his mother's eyes, but Bashir doubted that his own were looking very much better.

"Hello, Jules-- _Julian_." Father was wearing his best suit. He tensed a little when he realised his sudden error. Mother had also dressed as if for an important dinner. Both hands held her husband's arm, as two pairs of dark eyes searched the face of their only son, and Julian struggled to hold down a flush of irritation.

"How are you, Julian?" his mother asked.

"I'm fine," he replied, painfully aware of how little warmth had found its way into his voice.

Their smiles were just as forced as his own, as if they believed he couldn't tell. But he knew that Jenssen was watching, and somewhere out of sight, his staff would be as well. So he resolved to play the game, keep his answers polite and make believe that he thought the anxious couple in front of him really deserved his testimony.

* * *

"Infirmary to Doctor Hayes."

Hayes frowned, a split second before he looked up and responded. There had been panic threaded clearly through Janet Thompson's voice, and it did not diminish with her reply.

"We need you here, Doctor."

Exchanging an openly worried glance with his good friend Athena, Hayes downed the last dram of coffee in a single gulp and strode purposely in the direction of the Infirmary. It was not a great distance to cover. Nikos followed close at his heels, and he did not object to her presence.

Both young nurses - Thompson and Jabara - stood at one end of the room, so intently focused that neither reacted to the doctors' entry. Both had adopted a wide stance, legs slightly bent, hands forward, fingers splayed as far as they would go. Something thin and dark - a hypospray - was tucked surreptitiously between Jabara's thumb and forefinger.

"What happened?" Hayes asked the closer of the two. When she didn't respond, he gritted his teeth in frustration and hissed in her ear, "Ensign Thompson. Report."

"I don't know," she gasped in a barely audible voice. Her eyes were two anxious circles. "There was a communication from Earth, and then…"

_Earth…_?_ Of course_! _The trial_.

The station's one-time doctor stood in a corner, head bowed slightly and with his hair draped in a rough curtain across the top of his forehead. But the eyes beneath it flicked warily from one face to the next, catching even the smallest suggestion of movement and watching the scene with fiery determination.

"_Stay away_!" he shouted at Nikos, who took a step back, hands raised.

"Julian, what's going on?" she asked him.

"Nothing." His words were venomous. "Nothing's 'going on'. Everything's just fine. So why worry?"

"Was it your family?"

Bashir pounded the nearest wall, so loudly that Jabara and Thompson visibly flinched. Then he turned towards it, and threaded agitated fingers through his hair. Hayes risked a cautious step in his direction.

"Back!" The young man spun to face him, hands curled into half-clenched fists. Every muscle in his body was taut as though set to pounce. There were tears in his eyes, and a single raised vein bisected his forehead.

But all that showed on the face of Athena Nikos was an aura of calm resolve. "What did they say?"

"Nothing." Bashir shook his head, allowing a tear to spill over one cheek. His voice was slightly hoarse. "At least, nothing that _meant_ anything. Just, hello, how are you? How's the weather on Earth? Oh, it's fine. That sort of thing."

"They're worried about you," guessed Hayes.

Bashir was silent, but he kicked a nearby bench with the heel of one foot.

"It's not unreasonable," Nikos persisted, seamlessly following the direction of her friend's own thoughts. She took a deep breath, and her expression changed to one which Hayes could have recognised anywhere. It came from their student days, long nights spent defeating her at poker. At any other time, he would have been slightly amused to see it again - that definite shape of her eyes and mouth when she knew there was one more card to play, and she was bracing herself to play it.

"Julian." She waited until she'd caught his gaze. "You tried to kill yourself. Twice."

"I already told you, I didn't…"

"And the first time?"

He paused, leaning against the wall, but did not take his eyes away. "I was tired."

"Julian, please."

"_Will you stop that_?" His voice was low and dangerous, fringed with a distinctive hiss. "You don't know me. You saw me once. In a crowded lecture hall. Nobody's known me, not for a long time. Not even my best friends, so what makes you think you can even come close…?"

"I can't," conceded Nikos. But even Hayes could see that she was back-pedalling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend..."

"You want to know the truth?" Bashir demanded. Her apology seemed to have calmed him a little, but there was still poison in every word. "The whole truth? Well, here it is. So much of what's happened since I came here - Ajilon, the prison camp, all of it - it was horrible, sure. But the point is, it was _worth it_. Because at the end of the day I was a Starfleet Doctor, and there were people who needed me. And those same people who kept _telling _me that I was good at my job are the very ones who took it all away."

* * *

For a moment, there was silence all around. Athena Nikos felt Nathan's eyes upon her, but she did not turn to see. She'd had easily enough experience to know that it was by no means a frequent occurrence, to find exactly the right words to say what needed to be said. And when those moments came, if a person needed to be quiet, or angry, or even spiteful, it was important to allow the time for it to happen.

Bashir's dark hazel eyes looked deep into her own, and for a moment, Nikos felt his pain, disappointment, helpless frustration. Then he reached up, pressing the balls of his hands against his face, and slid all the way down the wall.

Signalling to Hayes and the others to stay where they were, Athena took a cautious step forward and quietly crouched beside the slender young man. With one hand on his arm, her other came to rest upon his upper back, in the space between his shoulder blades. He tensed momentarily, but made no move to shy away, and Nikos sensed that he was trembling.

But his jaw was beginning to clench. His eyes were lowered, their gaze already turning hard.

"No," whispered Nikos. "Don't fight it. Don't bury it." A near identical expression had been on Nathan's face when he met her at the airlock. And she'd known for a long time that too many officers turned out just the same. They would push away their darkest feelings, lock them deep within the shadows of their memory. How much more a man as practised at concealment as Julian Bashir so evidently appeared to be?

Nikos looked up and sought the eyes of Doctor Hayes. He was frowning, arms folded across his chest, but he seemed to catch her meaning. And he nodded.

She inclined her head - a brief but sincere expression of gratitude, and took the younger man by the hand. Bashir's shoulders were still hunched, eyes veiled in shadow, but he did not resist as she helped him to his feet. When she spoke, her voice was soft and firm. "Come with me."

He followed her without another word.


	11. A Stranger on the Promenade

**"**_**As I was going up the stair,**_

_**I saw a man who wasn't there.**_

_**He wasn't there again today.**_

_**I wish, I **_**wish****_ he'd go away._"**

**(William Hughes Mearns, _Antagonish_.)**

* * *

"Wait there." Nikos indicated a chair at one corner of the Replimat where the crowd was thinnest. Bashir glanced around him, still puzzled, and a little edgy. But with some hesitation, he obeyed.

"Uh…"

"Wait."

She covered the distance to the far wall, where a brightly luminescent replicator waited like a sleeping sentry. Julian's ears did not catch what it was she'd ordered, but he heard a momentary hum and saw the light around its edges increase and fade.

He counted forty two seconds before Doctor Nikos returned, a determined expression in her wide green eyes and a steaming blue mug in either hand. "Ginger root tea." She handed one to him, and seated herself at the opposite end of the table.

Bashir chuckled, although the sound he made was half a cough. "Just what the doctor ordered." He looked down, feeling suddenly heavy again. "Listen. What happened back there, I…"

"No need to explain," said Nikos. "After two whole days with nothing to do but stare at those walls, I'm sure any one of us would have gone a little stir crazy."

Listening to her words, Bashir sensed the return of his own particularly quirky smile. His tea was close to boiling, and the first three sips were cautious ones. But it warmed him thoroughly like the soft glow of sunbeams. _She's right, of course_, he thought, glancing around and noting with satisfaction that no-one was looking his way. Sometimes all it took was a taste of normality…

Suddenly he tensed, and his pulse was racing. Glaring across the room, he set down his drink. "What is it?" Nikos asked. Her voice sounded peculiarly distant even from less than a metre away.

A slightly pale ginger haired man sat near the entrance, chatting amiably to a grey faced alien in a dark satin hood. As Doctor Nikos noticed the change in Bashir's eyes, she placed a hand over both of his. But he slid his hands away and continued to stare. He could not hear what the man was saying, but guessed from the trembling of his exotic companion's shoulders that it must have been a joke of some kind. Patting his friend twice upon the back, the object of Bashir's scrutiny stood up and turned as if to leave.

There it was. The glimpse of a profile.

"It's him," hissed Julian, although he barely moved his lips.

He shoved back his chair, which clattered so loudly to the floor that faces turned. Skirting around tables, mumbling apologies to startled patrons, he kept his focus on the retreating stranger. He felt Nikos' hand brush against his forearm, but jerked out of reach and stumbled onto the crowded Promenade.

"Hey!" he called. The stranger was moving fast, but Bashir had already started to run. He sidestepped where he could - and more often collided with anyone who was not alert or ready enough to move aside.

"Sorry," he mumbled to a young woman in a well padded Sciences uniform, who spilled a stack of padds in a scattered ring along the Promenade floor. He clasped her shoulders for a moment. "Sorry."

The woman watched in startled irritation as he continued his pursuit.

"Hey!" he shouted again. His quarry did not turn around, although several others did. Bashir covered the remaining distance in three long strides. "Hey! Stop right there. _Who are you_?"

With a hand painfully tight around his shoulder, the stranger tensed, and turned to stare at the man behind him. "I… I… That is, erm… Who are _you_?"

A cold shock spread outwards from the base of Julian's spine. He backed away, throat clenched so tightly that he could barely force a sound. This stranger's face was milky pale, cheeks slightly rounded, eyes small and dark - and terribly confused. "But…" Julian looked about him in every direction. His voice was only just able to struggle into the open. "He was right…"

It was then that he noticed familiar faces in the crowd of onlookers. Jadzia was there, and Kira, and standing further away with his arms folded - just three steps behind them both - was the stern-faced Constable Odo. His eyes met theirs, and he rubbed his forehead, feeling suddenly giddy and more than a little nauseous.

"Julian," said a quiet voice in his ear. Athena Nikos took him by the arm. "I'm sorry," she told the red haired stranger - who turned and strode down the walkway, shaking his head and muttering. Bashir watched him retreat into the distance.

"Let's go," said Nikos, and gently led him past the staring crowd.

* * *

Athena sighed as she keyed in the code for an open subspace channel. "Sure you aren't bothered by me using your console?" she asked, turning slightly to her left.

Hayes waved a hand in her direction and continued to frown at an armful of research notes. "Don't mind me."

Nikos nodded her thanks, but the ginger haired doctor didn't appear to have noticed. In the time it took to receive a reply, she paused to rub some tension from the muscles of her neck and back, but failed to loosen the tight anxiety she'd felt since leaving the Replimat behind. Bashir had not said a word since their return, but enough had been said for one day, so she let the matter pass without comment. Shortly after that, he curled up on one of the Infirmary beds, and it had not been long before he was asleep.

_Which is probably not such a bad thing_, Nikos told herself. _He needs it_.

The lieutenant on the computer screen was just slightly younger than her colleague, fair haired, with lines of constant concern etched clearly upon her tight-skinned face. She greeted Athena with an weary expression as though weighted down by a never ending mountain of burdens.

"Hard day?" Nikos asked her after they'd exchanged their standard cursory greeting. The woman managed an exhausted smile.

"Is any day not?"

"Jack again?"

"Something like that." A barely discernable chuckle, and then the look of cautious resolve came back into her eyes. "What can I do for you, Athena?"

Listening with careful attention, she waited until Doctor Nikos had finished, and paused to study her subtly darker face. Nikos waited, allowing her time and silence to mull over this new message.

"Are you certain?" she asked eventually. The creases upon her brow deepened slightly. "I'd be the first to admit that common denominators aren't easy to find, but… In the majority of cases I've come across, if there _had_ been any genuine problems, they would never have been able to stay hidden for so long."

"I _can't_ be certain," Nikos assured her. "Not without a proper evaluation. And perhaps not even then, which is precisely what has me worried. But for the moment… Let's just say I have reason for concern."

"Very well." The woman nodded, her countenance heavy - but resigned. "Come by on the next transport, and we'll see."

Athena Nikos felt herself relax, followed by a stab of guilt at the relief that had been so surely gained from the same source as her colleague's discomfort. "Thank you, Karen. That's all I ask." She signed off, and the worn out face of Doctor Loews was abruptly replaced with a standard background stream of numerical data.

Hayes was watching from across the room, his raktajino already tepid in his hands. "Good luck convincing him to agree to _that_."

Sitting back, Nikos rubbed her face with both hands. She felt a twisting pain deep within her gut. "That's the thing, isn't it?" she muttered. The kind of decision she always hated to make. But there was a life to be saved, and they both knew that Hayes' words meant very little when weighed against their obligations. It hurt her even more to admit it, but she was no longer certain that their patient was in any position to be granted a choice.

* * *

They both turned towards the unexpected sound of somebody entering the office.

"Sorry," stammered Dax, the expression in her eyes both startled and apologetic. "I was actually hoping to speak to Julian. You wouldn't happen to know…?"

"He's asleep, Jadzia," Hayes replied. "If you come back later, I can let him know you dropped by."

A puzzled frown superimposed itself onto Dax's pale face. "I don't understand," she said. "There wasn't anyone in there when I…"

She gasped, and Hayes felt a shock run all the way down his back. He glanced at Nikos and saw the same horror mirrored in her wide grey-green eyes. Leaping from his seat so suddenly that he banged one of his legs against the bench, he sped towards the main ward with Dax and Nikos close behind him.

"_Damn_," Hayes cursed, running a hand through his sparse copper hair. "_Now_ where's he got to?"

_You idiot, Nathan - you should have _known _he was faking all along_.

"I'll get Odo," Dax offered, and slapped the tiny arrowhead badge attached to her uniform. As she relayed whatever particulars she could to the hyper-enthusiastic Bajoran sergeant who answered, Doctor Hayes sensed a headache from earlier that day about to return.

Nikos had paused in the middle of the room, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. Something in her stance drew Hayes' attention. "What is it, Athena?"

"Of course!"

His friend pounded one manicured hand against the other. "Stay here for when Security arrives," she told her startled audience, and slapped her friend's arm on the way out. "I think I have an idea where he might have gone."


	12. Polyphemus' Den

"_**If I had my liberty, I would do my liking. Until then, let me be as I am, and seek not to alter me**_**."**

**(Shakespeare's **_**Much Ado About Nothing**_**.)**

* * *

Bashir's quarters were dark at first, and slightly musty from lack of use. He wondered how much of what his senses told him was real, and how much was merely imagined - deceptions based upon the time he knew he'd been away. Arms swinging freely at his sides, he stepped forward and called for the lights.

He flinched reflexively before releasing the sudden tension in a slow, outward breath. There was no ambush from the shadows - no-one waiting to apprehend him and escort him back to the Infirmary. But as he glanced around him, he was met with a twinge of mild disappointment. Not one thing was out of place. If anything, the room was immaculately tidy. Even his travel bag remained propped against the sofa, neatly packed as if for a long trip back to Earth.

Dax had not found anything, and part of him reasoned that if she could not and neither could Odo, then he was unlikely to find much either. But he had so much more to prove than Dax or the constable. There was every chance that determination alone would allow him to discover what they had missed.

Passing the door to his bedroom, he was briefly startled as something flashed past the edge of his vision. _A face_. He froze. Muscles taut and ready for action, listening to the heavy rise and fall of his own chest. He span towards it. His heart was beating fast, hands tingling.

_Fight or flight…_

…Kukalaka.

_Get a hold of yourself, Julian_. Eyes closed, he slumped against a wall and rubbed his neck where he'd felt the sharp pain of strained ligaments.

But the bear was watching him. Reminding him.

"I wish _you_ could tell them," Bashir despaired. But it seemed that his only other witness would be taking its secrets to the grave - or wherever else it was that teddy bears went to once their stuffing had fallen out and their outer coats had worn away to nothing.

And then the lights in his room went dark.

"What now?" he whispered, stepping forward to glance around him. He raised his voice. "Computer, lights."

Nothing happened.

"Computer." A little more insistent this time. "_Lights_."

Nothing. Not even an acknowledging chime. He shuddered.

"…Please?"

Even in the dark, Julian Bashir was at least familiar with the layout of his own quarters. Tiptoeing back into the living room, pushing away a slithering chill that crept along his nerves, he traced a path to where he knew there was a small computer console. Those engineering extension courses at Starfleet Medical must have taught him _something_, after all. He could attempt to fix the lights from there.

Something was pressed against the small of his back, hard and slender, although not at all sharp. He stopped, holding his breath and dreading to guess what it would turn out to be.

"Don't turn around," said a voice from behind him.

Bashir's already acute senses were suddenly as focused as they had been in many days. He could hear every soft outward breath, and felt the discomforting warmth of air on the back of his neck as a gloved hand reached forward to place something hard and slender upon the console. _An isolinear rod_. The scarce light was scattered and refracted along its amber surface.

"Put it in the computer. And don't turn around. If you turn around, I will kill you."

"There are some who might say I'm dead already."

"But I don't believe you _really_ think you're one of them. The computer, Doctor. I won't ask again."

Clenching his jaw, Bashir lifted the rod between his thumb and forefinger and inserted it into the console. An image spread across the monitor - round, organic, suspended in a colourless and shady void. Data scrolled up the left hand side, catching his attention. He leaned in closer.

"Recognise it?" asked the voice.

It was not entirely familiar, but everything fitted horribly easily into place. RNA sequences, chemical composition, basic nucleotides… "It's a virus."

"And am I supposed to believe you know nothing about this?"

"I've never…"

"_Don't_ turn around."

"I've never seen it before in my life," Bashir insisted in a deliberately level tone.

"You were not at all involved in its conception?"

"What? Of course not."

"Then what was _he_ doing here?"

In the absence of anything else to draw his gaze, Bashir stared at the soft blue-grey of his computer screen. The virus floated - silent and oblivious - within its darkened cage. "Listen to me," he began, speaking slowly. He would have to take the greatest possible care in his choice of words. "That man, whoever he is - I'd never even seen him before the other day, and I've certainly never been a party to any of his nefarious schemes. As to why he was here… I'm guessing you already know more about that than I ever will."

"That's a lie. He was in your quarters. You must have been working for him."

"_You're_ in my quarters, and I'm not working for _you_," Bashir reasoned, and winced at the sudden acidity in his voice.

Whatever the reply might have been was cut short by a series of soft clicks just outside the entrance. The unseen stranger slid his data rod from the console, and the room was once again shrouded in darkness. "Stay where you are," he hissed, his breath wet and rancid in Julian's ear.

The shadow that came through his door this time was smaller than Chief O'Brien, with a tight fitting uniform to accentuate the subtle inward curve of a female waist. Athena Nikos looked around her. "Julian?" she called. Met with no answer, she stepped forward and continued to peer into every dark corner.

"You have to go." He spoke to the silence, fighting to conceal an anxious tremor. Both hands gripped the console, and he felt the ache of it travel up his wrists. He could see the glint of light from outside reflect across the surface of her eyes.

"You know I can't do that." Bashir was disappointed. But then, he chided himself, he could hardly have expected her simply to agree.

"Please." He allowed a little urgency to seep into his voice. "I'll explain later but, _please_. Go. Now."

The slightest of movements, and Nikos zeroed in on his barely defined silhouette.

She regarded him with a sidelong frown. "Julian? Why?"

Bashir's gaze flicked warily to the right, although he took care not to turn. "Whatever it is," Nikos was saying. "You _can_ tell me."

He shook his head. "You don't understand…"

"Then come back with me." She beckoned, one arm extended towards him. "_Help_ me to understand."

"No." Frustration transformed Bashir's voice to a rising growl. "It isn't what you think. You're in danger, Athena. You have to get _out_ - _now_!"

Nikos stood upright, now more puzzled than concerned. "What do you…?"

A sharp buzz from behind, and a slender energy beam cut through the surrounding darkness. Smells, acrid and painful. Something burning. With a cry, Athena Nikos' body was tossed back across the room. Sparks flared and died on the fabric of her uniform.

"Stay back!" the stranger commanded. Bashir turned to find the disruptor trained on him.

"Or what?" Cold fury lent power to his challenge.

The stranger glared, and raised his weapon slowly to be level with the other man's head. "Stay back," he repeated.

"Do you want to know what your friend told me, or don't you?"

Silence.

"If she dies," hissed Bashir, pointing. "I swear I won't tell you a thing. So either you let me go to her, or you may as well just shoot me now."

The stranger paused, muscles tensing slightly around his eyes. But then he nodded, and pulled the gun away to scratch himself lightly behind his right ear.

Bashir dived forward to where Nikos was slumped against the outer wall, her face unnaturally pallid and twisted in pain. She coughed, wincing with every movement.

"Let me see," he said. As gently as he could manage, he pulled up the hem of the woman's uniform jacket and stifled a grimace at what he saw.

"And I expected to be the one helping you," she told him through clenched teeth.

He forced a smile. "I assure you, the irony isn't lost on me," he said, and paused to tear a length of cloth from the end of his sleeve. "I'm afraid this is going to hurt."

Nikos held back a cry. Tears escaped from her eyes as the makeshift bandage was pressed hard against the side of her abdomen.

"You!" Bashir rounded on the pale and dark haired man still standing in one corner. "Whatever your name is."

"It's Appleton," the stranger challenged him. "Lawrence Appleton."

"Appleton, then. There's a medkit in that cabinet over there. Go and get it."

The man straightened, cold hostility showing in his eyes. "Might I remind you, I am the one with the disruptor pistol?"

"And I'm the one with the information. Get me a medkit."

"_Do_ you have his… information?" Nikos whispered in a voice barely loud enough for Bashir to hear.

He remained silent. Nikos' blood had already soaked all the way to his hands. _She needs surgery_, he thought distractedly. _But I__'__m in no position to give it to her_.

"Julian… You're bluffing. Aren't you?"

She was fighting to take a breath, but her watery gaze was level with his own. He felt a rush of despair that he struggled to push back down to the depths of his stomach.

"Doctor?"

Bashir looked up, startled. "Don't talk," he said. "You need to save your strength."

"Is it that bad?"

Frowning, he tore away his other sleeve, and quickly swapped one bandage for the other. And then Appleton came back with his medkit.

"I have an apology to make," Bashir told the wounded doctor as he clicked it open and rifled efficiently through the contents. "I'd give you something for the pain, but it appears that someone has appropriated my hypospray."

_Not to mention almost half of everything else he ever kept in there._

Nikos smiled tightly. But then she coughed, and her expression of mild amusement turned quickly to one of pain.

"Just lie still." But without a proper medical facility, the best Julian could offer her was a quick patch up with a dermal regenerator and a few clean bandages. At least that would go some way to covering the deep burns around her wound. There would be less chance of infection. But the woman would still have to get into surgery, sooner rather than later. Or she would die.

It really was that simple.

"Time's up," said a now familiar voice behind him. He felt the cold touch of a gun pressed against the top of his spine.

"She needs to get to the Infirmary," Bashir protested.

"You're coming with me." Appleton's voice was clear and slow. Back in control. "If you don't, I'll kill her first. Then I'll hunt down all your friends, and when I'm done, I'll kill you last of all. What was the name of Chief O'Brien's son again?"

_Damn you_.

Bashir turned his attention back to Doctor Nikos, whose eyes were closing, tears trailing down the sides of her face. Even without the lights, he could see that she was dangerously pale. "I need to borrow your combadge," he whispered. He took it from her, guessing that she would not object. His fingers were deft, working quickly, and his hands were steadier than he supposed they ought to have been.

"Just a little something the chief taught me once," he explained in answer to her silently questioning face. "I'm setting up a distress signal. They should have help to you in seconds."

Her mouth moved. "What… about… you?"

"I've been in worse situations than this before," he assured her. "And _your_ only job is to get well, you hear? Not to be worrying about what happens to me."

Nikos' voice was fading even as she struggled to speak. "Who am I - to… argue?"

"Enough stalling," growled Appleton. His grip was rough and painful on Bashir's arm as he hauled him away. "Let's go."


	13. Belly of the Beast

**"**_**Masquerade. Paper faces on parade.**_

_**Masquerade.**_

_**Hide your face so the world will never find you**_**.****"**

**(_The Phantom of the Opera_, Lyrics by Charles Hart & Richard Stilgoe.)**

* * *

Feeling peculiarly annoyed more than anything else that he could ascertain, Bashir looked down to where his hands slapped against the brightly lit floor of the tunnel. He was surprised at how much they resembled a pair of hard edged shadow puppets, but even more so that such a bizarre comparison should have occurred to him in the first place.

"Why are we crawling through Jeffries' tubes?"

"Shut up and move," came his captor's rough growl from behind.

They had already been moving long enough for his knees to ache. Not to mention his hands, shoulders, back… And he could do very little to shake the image of Doctor Nikos, injured and bleeding on his living room floor. He wondered if anyone had reached her in time, if they were blaming him for having disappeared again. Or if they might possibly understand after all, even just a little.

_What's to understand? You abandoned a patient_. _You left her to her fate, alone_. _You _deserve_ to be shunted from Starfleet Medical_. For a moment the edges of his vision shifted and blurred, tears of rage and self-recrimination stinging in his eyes.

His next breath was forcefully deep, and he reminded himself just as angrily that he would have been of little use had he ended up lying right there beside her.

_They'd stopped not far from Bashir's still darkened quarters, at one of the uneven, geometric panels that lined the wall of the habitat ring. "Open it," Appleton commanded._

_The tiniest flicker of rebellion flaring in his chest, Bashir hesitated. "Why?"_

"_Because if you don't, I will kill you."_

Could have guessed.

_Crouching by the wall, he worked his fingers in around the panel's edge. It came away with a sharp click. An instant later, and a disruptor had once again been levelled at his face. The eyes of the man who held it were cold and determined. "In."_

_Bashir folded his limbs against each other and swung head first through the open gap. Once the hatch was back in its original position, he cast a querying glance at Appleton, who signalled to the narrow tunnel in front._

"Wouldn't it have been easier just to walk?" Julian called, turning his head a little as he moved.

"Oh yes, that would be fine for you." It had been an impulsive ploy, but now there was an even harder edge to the pale man's voice. "And your friends would be oh so quick to turn up, I would be arrested, and everyone would go home happy? I'm willing to bet there are already others out looking for you, and I _know_ there are people looking for me. So we're both staying out of sight for a while, is what we're going to do."

Bashir stopped, wondering what it was he'd caught in the reply. Impatience? Irritation? No - that wasn't it…

_Fear._

"Why would anyone be coming after you?" he asked, surprised to discover that his own voice now carried an edge of concern.

"Simple enough," the man replied. The sounds of movement had stopped. "I know about the virus."

Levering himself around so as to be facing across the tunnel with his back against one wall, Bashir frowned in his captor's direction. "What is it?"

For a moment, Appleton's dark eyes narrowed as he paused to study Julian's face. "You were bluffing earlier," he realised. "Weren't you? You really _don't_ know."

A wordless stare was all the reply that he needed. The man with the disruptor also manoeuvred himself into a sitting position. "A few years back," he began. "It would have been only a matter of weeks after your then Commander Sisko first discovered the Dominion threat. I was one of a small group of people assigned to the development of new biological weapons. Something to prepare for the inevitable war."

"But we're not at war with the Dominion," said Bashir.

"Yet," Appleton corrected him. "We're not at war _yet_. Whatever peace there is right now, it won't last long. And don't pretend to me that you haven't already figured out the odds. I'll wager you've found the chance for a peaceful solution to be every bit as remote as we have. The Federation needs every advantage it can get, and that's _before_ our people start to die."

"And what about that other man?" Bashir asked. "Where does he fit in to all of this?"

The reply he received was slow to come, but with little sign of reluctance or hesitation. "His name is Sloan," Appleton said. "Or that's all he tells people, anyway. He must have heard about our research - how we were all set to create a virus that could wipe out the Jem'Hadar before the expected war should even begin. And it's possible he may have been the one pulling the strings behind our project from the very start."

A frown passed across his slightly olive-hued, pale face. "That's not something I can say for certain, and I definitely don't have the evidence to support it. So a few weeks back, I stole all the data I could, and wiped the memory of our entire computer. Which was far from easy, let me tell you. I've been in hiding ever since, tracking him where I can, but without a lot of success."

"Until this week," Bashir finished for him. "He's the one you think is after you. Isn't he?"

There was no reply. But again, there was no need for one.

"Listen," said Bashir. He leaned forward slightly, with a sudden, intense resolve. "You don't have to do this alone. We could go to Captain Sisko. Together. _Tell_ him what you just told me, I promise he would hear you out."

"And do what?" retorted Appleton. "Have that shapeshifter 'constable' of yours put me in one of his holding cells while I wait for that man and his cronies to find me? No, thank _you_. There's already a ship at one of your cargo bays. I plan to take her out, nice and quiet, and get the Hell off of this monstrosity before anybody even notices I'm gone."

"And what _plan_ do you have for me?" Bashir asked. The man regarded him with a cold and silent glare.

"You're my leverage."

"Oh really?" He sensed his own voice rise in volume, but there was little he could do to prevent it. "If half of what you say is true, these people are hardly likely to care that you have a hostage."

For a moment, Lawrence Appleton was silent - thoughtful. He rubbed one cheek with the point of his gun. _Did he even consider that possibility_? Bashir wondered, watching from nearby. _Is he planning _any_ of this, or is it all just happening moment to moment_?

Careful to avoid any sudden movements, he shuffled a little closer, and held out his hand. Appleton stared as if he'd never seen it before.

But his prisoner was keeping a steady gaze. "The captain will listen," he promised in a low stage whisper. "I swear it."

From further down the tunnel came an unexpected sound. Soft and unwavering - something between a whistle and a hiss. Bashir felt the blood drain from his face. _Now what_? Jerking towards it, Appleton was suddenly tense and fully two shades whiter. The pulse was visible at his right hand temple, where a raised blood vessel had begun to stir like a writhing serpent worm.

"You _are_ working for them!" he shouted without warning, and recoiled so suddenly that Julian flinched. No chance to wonder what that constant hiss might be. His own heart was racing, but he kept his focus on the piercing dark eyes in front of him, and the disruptor pistol that had again been aimed his way.

"Wait a minute - I already told you…"

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" the man screamed, spittle escaping wetly from the corners of his mouth. "I've _seen_ your kind before. I know how you hide, and lie, and treat the rest of us like we're your own personal toys. And what - you think I'm that… _dim_ that you can play me like an instrument? Not this time. I'm not about to let you follow me out of here."

He tensed both arms, disruptor at the ready. And he fired.


	14. Caught in the Predator's Snare

**"**_**Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,**_

_**In his wrath he darted upward,**_

_**Flashing leaped into the sunshine,**_

_**Opened his great jaws and swallowed,**_

_**Both canoe and Hiawatha**_**."**

**(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _The Song of Hiawatha_.)**

* * *

Why was it that no language he'd ever learnt had words enough to describe such _pain_? Searing. Burning. Red-hot agony. Nothing could possibly ever come close.

The energy beam pierced his left ankle, scorching bone and muscle and surging along abused, overheated nerves. Julian fell to the floor of the vent and curled into a tight ball, mouth open unbearably wide in a broken, soundless scream. He'd heard his own cry, or believed that he had, although it had sounded more like a distant, guttural animal call - nothing that could have possibly come from himself. Not even echoes remained to testify that he'd ever had a voice to scream with, except that now his throat was dry and raw.

As he shuffled past, Lawrence Appleton threaded a hand through Bashir's hair and lifted his head a little way from the floor. Eyes watering so badly that he could barely distinguish the line of his attacker's head and shoulders, Julian forced them open just enough to look upon the outline of a face.

"It's nothing personal, you understand," the pale olive shape assured him. "No hard feelings. But I _really_ can't have you coming after me."

The soft hiss behind them increased in volume. Appleton reacted, jerking around to face the source, and swore. "And now I have to go." His breath was warm, and smelt like something had been rotting between his teeth for over a week. Finally releasing his wounded captive, he crawled away and then was gone.

* * *

_You can fight it_, Bashir's tangled mind cried out to him. Limbs shaking almost too badly to take his weight, he pushed himself up by the nearest wall and forced back another agonised cry. _Escape. Find escape. Stop it from hurting_. Instinctive, unavoidable thoughts. But he didn't have time to be thinking them.

The noise remained, sharp and constant in the echoing corridor. He could almost believe that it was nothing more than the ringing of his ears, except that he'd already seen Appleton's response. Panting heavily, struggling to focus, he rested his back against the tunnel and looked around to find its source. And there it was - a carpet of solid white smoke already creeping towards him like an advancing army. He guessed it must already have been ankle deep.

_Gas_, he thought. _Anesthizine_? _Neurocine_? Or something even more disturbing. It hardly mattered. If he allowed it to spread to the rest of the station, the resulting casualties would certainly be dire.

The key was to get to a message to Ops, to seal off the network of tunnels before the advancing cloud had a chance to escape. The nearest companel was less than five metres away, set in place especially for emergencies such as this one - and he _could_ still push through the pain. There was nothing wrong with his head or stomach. Not yet, anyhow. It was all the weight on that one damned ankle.

The floor lurched every time he moved. Pain washed over him in waves, like the chill of a Winter surf. But he hauled himself forward before leaning against the wall to close his eyes. _Rest_. But only for a few seconds. There was still a job he had to do.

He reached as far as he could and slapped the controls, before his limbs finally gave way and he crashed back against the solid floor. The muscles in his arms were weak and useless, screaming for respite. But now at least the channel was open.

"Bashir to…" He coughed. "Bashir to Ops."

The voice that answered was sharp, immediate - Kira's. "Julian! Where the Hell are you?"

His head felt fuzzy. He was short of breath. But that couldn't be right. The smoke was not supposed to reach him for at least… at least…

He realised then that he was trembling, cold and numb. _Shock. You__'__re in shock_.

"Nerys…" He struggled to speak through chattering teeth. "Conduit. Somewhere. You… You have to seal…"

Needed to gather his fractured thoughts. They weren't usually this vague.

"Julian, are you all right?"

He chuckled, a weak, breathy sound. "I've been better."

"Sit tight. We're going to get you out of there."

"No," he insisted, forcing himself a little more upright. "You have to seal… you have to seal it. There's gas."

Less than a minute and it would reach him. Another minute after that and it would be at the nearest opening. Onto the station. They mustn't - _he_ mustn't - let that happen.

There was talk at the other end. He knew what they were saying even when he couldn't distinguish their words. _Sensor readings. Options. Transport_?_ Something about interference_… Someone had set up a suppression field. Frustration bubbled inside him, the edge of the cloud already touching his senses. A tainted, smoky odour like burning plastic. Or was he merely imagining it?

They would never get to him on time. But what could he say to make them understand?

* * *

Remembering only at the last minute that it was easier to crawl through Jeffries' tubes with his disrupter tucked neatly into his belt than it was to drag it awkwardly beside him in one half-open hand, Lawrence Appleton made a final left hand turn. Here - directly below him - was the open space of the cargo bay. He congratulated himself for having the foresight to study the layout of the run-down Cardassian station before his arrival, at least as thoroughly as the scant opportunity had allowed.

_How could anyone stand to live here_? he questioned the coldly lit silence. The corridors were dark, their prevailing colour a dull, depressing shade of grey, and every angle was sharp and uninviting as if the very walls were looking for their earliest chance to stab somebody.

The hatch was jammed a little on his first attempt to prise it open, and Appleton released a silent curse. Still, he'd managed to outrun the encroaching cloud this far. Now wasn't the time for panic to catch up with him. Frowning quietly, he paused to reflect. His feet could exert far greater pressure than his arms, but then the panel would drop all the way from ceiling to floor. And that would mean noise.

It was a chance that he would have to take. Back pressed flat against the topmost wall, he levered as hard as he could with the soles of his boots. The ground shifted - just a few millimetres. He pushed again.

The noise of hard surfaces colliding and reverberating was loud enough to hurt his ears. Heart pounding, jaw clenched, he ducked momentarily back inside the vent. But there was nothing to be heard but the steady monotone of dying metallic echoes. No sharp cries, no running footsteps, no loud buzz of phasers charging.

_Safe_, thought Appleton. The opportunity had come to make his escape.

* * *

"There's _no time_." The voice on the comm was soft, but insistent. Kira stared at Sisko. Her heart was thundering - she could feel it in her chest. The captain had instantly emerged from his office, descending the stairs with a speed that would have tripped a less athletic man. Now, his brow was tense with worry. And conflict. The others watched, anxious, anticipating. Already dreading his answer.

"We'll have to set up forcefields," he concluded after a brief silence that seemed to last forever. "Dax, I want you to see what you can do to break through the interference. But assuming that fails, is there any way that we can shunt the remaining cloud out to space?"

"Captain…" Miles O'Brien spoke from behind the transporter controls. Every face in Ops was pale.

Sisko glared at the chief, who was duly silenced. "Is there any way?"

"Not without losing all air to the Jeffries' tube." It was clear from O'Brien's reply that he did not regard this as a preferable option. Sisko did not look any happier from where Kira stood. But there was resolution behind his dark eyes.

O'Brien noticed it too. "Sir, with respect, you can't seriously be considering…"

"As soon as it's done, we'll flood the whole compartment with atmosphere," the captain told them. "I'm not _about_ to give up on anyone. But if half of what we've been told is true, there's unlikely to be much breathable air left in there anyway, and I'm not prepared to allow it on to the rest of the station either. Chief?"

The lines tightened around O'Brien's mouth, but he nodded. "Aye, Sir."

* * *

Bashir listened to the captain's careful explanation of what they had finally planned to do. _Dead from poisoned air_, he thought. _Or dead from lack of it_. Not how he'd anticipated ending his days. He was too tired even to calculate the odds. Or at least, to calculate them beyond the scope of _Not Good_.

His chest continued to rise and fall, lungs burning with every breath. There was some chance, perhaps, that the nearest escape hatch was not as far as he imagined. But it was nowhere that he could see. His arms and legs were too heavy to move. And besides, there would already be forcefields in place by now. He _hoped_ there would be forcefields…

An image came to his mind. The ballerina, Palis Delon. How long since he'd thought about her? She was dancing, ivory skin gleaming in the spotlight. Every one of her movements was fluid, graceful, as perfect as she had been in his sweetest memories.

_She was the swan, gliding sun-bright over the waters of the lake. And he was the awestruck prince who watched from the water's edge, and marvelled at how something so glorious could have ever come his way…_

He wondered. What would his other life have been - the one he'd set aside so long ago for a career that had come to nothing? Or had he just been running all along?

"I suppose you all think I've got some kind of death wish." Words rasped in his throat and chest. It was a struggle, but he needed to speak, to know that there was life still in him, and hear the sound of a familiar voice.

An answer reached him over the comm. Kira, it was Kira who replied. "The thought did occur to us."

"Well," he barely whispered. In his imagination, the light was fading, Palis' perfect smile vanishing into darkness. He coughed, and forced another breath. But whatever he was taking in this time, it certainly wasn't oxygen.

For some reason, he found himself chuckling.

"I don't."


	15. Keeping Watch

**"**_**You ask me my name. I'll tell it to you, and in return give me the gift you promised me. My name is Nobody. That is what I am called by my mother, and father, and by all of my friends**_**."**

**(Homer, _Odyssey_.)**

* * *

Odo was a Tiberian Python, slithering through as many tunnels as he could ever be certain to find. The station - and especially it's network of branching Jeffries' tubes - was uncomfortably cold for any snake. But for the moment at least, his comfort was of very little consequence.

He'd told his deputies to keep up with their own comprehensive search, although he doubted they would be having much success. Tricorders and sensors were excellent at picking up life signs when there was nothing to interfere with their readings. But pythons could not be stopped by dampening fields. And they had that extra sensitivity to infra red. If there was anything giving off residual heat, he would find it.

Even if all he found turned out to be a rapidly cooling body.

* * *

Nathan Hayes barely had time to catch his breath before the call came through to expect another beam in. _They've found him_. With a queasy mix of relief and anxiety, he acknowledged the call, and focused on the seconds-long wait that always seemed to stretch into infinity.

Athena had been barely conscious, and close to panic. But she'd managed to tell them enough for Hayes' jaw to clench so tightly that it ached.

Tense and waiting, channelling every wave of cold anxiety, he fixed his gaze on the tell tale lights of a transporter beam.

No time to think about what they could have done better. That would come in the later hours, when the consequences had played themselves out, with little left to do but watch and reflect, possibly even regret. Now there was only the moment, a steady rush of anticipation as the beam took on a solid form and Hayes and the nurse at his side were instantly called to action.

Fluctuating colours on the monitors around them were set to display the young man's vital signs. And Jabara's tight, steady voice was clear in the doctor's ears. "BP is low. Pulse thready. Brain activity is minimal…"

"He's _not breathing_," shouted Hayes. Blood was caked at one corner of Bashir's mouth. The muscles of his hands and wrists were twisted - tense. Internal bleeding. Hypoxia. Seizure. The doctor called for a shot of cortolin, which hissed obligingly, but failed to provide the jump-start he had hoped for.

_Damn, damn, damn._

An alarm sounded, shrill and noisome. Anxiety sharpened Hayes' focus as he jerked his head towards the display. _What the Hell_…? But then Nurse Jabara spoke the words he realised he'd already been dreading.

"Cardiac arrest. Doctor!"

It always happened too fast, but Hayes' thoughts were moving so much faster. Or, more probably, there _were_ no thoughts - just a series of rapid, practised movements. Years of experience and well worn reflexes. Times like these, too much thinking just got in the way.

"Clear!" he shouted. Bashir's body jerked upwards with the surging current. No change. Hayes held back a curse.

_Don't you leave me_. He wished as he often did that there was some divine power he could believe in. Praying to gods was always so much easier than accepting cold, impersonal, verifiable _facts_.

"Clear!"

_Don't you dare leave me_.

* * *

The cargo ship was ideally suited to a crew of two or three, but not entirely unmanageable with just one. Slipping quickly into the centremost of three high backed chairs, Appleton finally released the breath he'd been holding and watched the dark, exotic form of Deep Space Nine as it disappeared from his rear view screen.

His venture had not gone according to plan. Really, the disruptor pistol had only been for show, and he'd certainly never expected to be forced to hurt anyone. And what was he coming away with? Not much more than he'd known from the beginning - decidedly less if he was to count all the "answers" he'd discovered were in fact entirely wrong. To put it plainly, a failure all around.

Unless he counted his own life. He still had that, didn't he? Enough to keep on fighting with the approach of the next new day.

_Elene_… As he continued to stare at the receding station, the name floated gently up from the darkness. He could only imagine what his wife would say. "_You're getting distracted again, Laurie. And you've put on weight_." It was true. The space between chair and console had been a far tighter squeeze than perhaps it should have been.

And yet… Lawrence Appleton leaned back and frowned, still troubled in a way that he could not quite explain. It had been an interesting flourish on somebody's part - to poison the Jeffries' tubes with himself and his hostage still inside. Certainly not his idea. And he was beginning to suspect it might not have been Bashir's intention, either.

If there was even a hint of evidence to be found on the station, Appleton would have been the one to come and find it. Somebody had known that. And that same person must have known exactly where he would be, calculated from a distance what they were near to certain he would do. And if that freak doctor of theirs really had known nothing, then who else…?

"Answer me something, Mister Appleton."

He tensed. From behind him came the cold, steady voice of Luther Sloan. "How long has it been since last we met? Quite some time, hasn't it? Tell you what. Next time I see Elene, I'll give her your regards."

* * *

Worf was not at all sure how appropriate it was for him to be part of the vigil the others insisted on maintaining at Bashir's bedside. The man was childish, overconfident, infuriating. And, needless to mention, still in love with _his_ Parmach'kai. It had not been Worf's choice, but rather an explicit _request_ from the captain - and a stone-hard glare from Dax - that brought him to this place. But once there, he quickly discovered a peculiar reluctance to leave.

The doctor had helped him at least once already, in that difficult situation with his brother Kurn last year. He'd helped him again during their recent captivity, and now he might have even saved a large part of the station. So it was decided. In his own way, Bashir was capable of great deeds, deeds that were worthy of story and song. And he - Worf, last son of a dishonoured house - would sit, and watch, and keep the predators at bay.

A sound at his left alerted him to movement, and he turned in time to see another young man swing a chair around in one hand and drop it lightly to the floor.

The son of the captain approached from behind, his face barely visible in the fragmented light. "Can I join you?"

The Klingon nodded, and returned to his silent reverie. For a moment, Jake Sisko was quiet as well, eyes fixed hypnotically on the display above the biobed. Then he nodded towards it. "Do you understand what any of that means?" he asked.

Worf looked up at the screen, and pondered his answer. "I do not," he replied after a brief pause. "Do you?"

"I'm not sure I want to." Jake shifted uneasily, and sighed. "The truth is, I wasn't even that sure I wanted to be here. I'm still not, but…" At this, he was visibly squirming. "Then I had to come. I couldn't sleep, and besides, I've already failed him once before."

Worf turned, and studied the teenager's expression. Jake was slouched over the back of his chair, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, and with his head resting upon both arms. The light was slender on the outline of his face, but some part of it reflected directly from his eyes, lending them an eerie, melancholic glow.

"I understand," Worf said. "But Doctor Bashir is strong. He will prevail. And he will know that you were here."

"How?" asked Jake.

"I will tell him."

With that understanding, they slipped back into silence.

* * *

It was almost exactly 0600 hours when Kira Nerys strode into the Infirmary. But the lighting was as subdued as if it had been closer to midnight. She saw two people already at the far end of the room. Worf was sitting straight backed in his seat, large hands resting upon his knees. Beside him, Jake Sisko had folded his arms across the back of another chair. His head was bowed against them, eyes closed.

Kira placed a hand on Jake's shoulder, and he stirred. "Shouldn't you be back at your quarters?" she teased, unable to keep a trace of mirth from her voice.

"Five more minutes, okay?" he mumbled into his sleeve.

She nodded. "Okay."

Worf was watching her. That was the thing about those dark, staring eyes of his. When he watched, people felt it.

"It's all right, Mr Worf," Kira told him. "It's 0600. You're relieved."

The Klingon nodded. "Thank you, Major."

And from the direction of the nearest bed there came a barely audible moan, so quiet that Kira and the others might just as easily not have heard it at all. "Doctor," she called to where Hayes was monitoring the dark haired woman who slept nearby. Even Jake was suddenly alert and upright.

Catching the sudden urgency in the major's voice, Hayes strode around the nearby monitors towards them. Bashir grimaced, chest rising slowly as though struggling to lift a heavy weight, and Kira instinctively called his name.

His mouth was moving as if to speak, one hand struggling to push away the lightweight oxygen mask that still rested across it. Kira glanced at Hayes, who closed his tricorder and nodded.

Covering her friend's cold hands with her own, she removed the mask from over his mouth and nose. "Nerys?" he whispered, instantly gravitating to the familiarity of her voice.

"…_May I call you Nerys?" A memory drifted through the years and came to settle lightly upon her shoulders. They had been in a runabout, believing they were on their way home. And he had managed to annoy her yet again although she didn't quite remember why._

_But the image she carried of those wide brown eyes was as clear as any hologram. They'd watched her so intensely, with such jittery anticipation that she could not help but relent. The younger, angrier version of herself had found the doctor offensive - arrogant and irritating. But even in those first two years, there was something about him - in the enthusiastic gleam of his eyes, or perhaps in that oddly infectious grin. She'd never quite managed to dislike him completely._

_And she distinctly remembered hating him for it._

"I'm here," she promised, and moved in closer. She pushed aside all feelings of awkwardness, inadequacy, doubt. Her sick friend needed company, and for the moment, she was it.

"Doctor Nikos?" His voice was clear, but there was barely a breath behind it. "She… alive?"

It was Hayes who answered from the shadows. "She's going to be fine. You probably just saved her life back there."

Bashir took a deep inward breath, which sounded more like a gasp. "Am I…?"

"You're alive too, Julian." Kira squeezed his hand. And he smiled. It was weak, but it was there, and she saw him relax, the worried creases smoothing once again across his face.

"Good."


	16. A Clearing on the Littered Path

**"**_**It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness**_**."**

**(Cicero.)**

* * *

He still had a slight limp, the legacy of singed nerve endings at the base of his ankle. But Nathan Hayes had assured him that this would heal, as long as Julian kept to his strict physical therapy regime.

_It was only moments ago. He'd been sitting alone in Quark's, watching the crowd from the upper level and slowly turning a half empty glass of synthale around in one hand. People moved below him, lit from above as though each of the light beams was falling like dust across their heads and shoulders._

_If that round bellied Yridian would only consider doubling down, he could win himself quite a tidy sum…_

_And then a voice just behind his shoulder. "Come with me."_

_He turned around. "Dax? What are you…?"_

"_Come." Her expression was determined, cutting off all protests before they'd even had a chance to form. Still a little confused, Bashir threw back the remainder of his drink and followed her to the nearest lift._

It did not take long before they were stepping through the doors. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"The wardroom." She did not turn around.

"Why?"

"You'll see."

* * *

_His sleep had been profound, and entirely undisturbed by dreams. He was far from certain how much of the time he'd even been sleeping - or if he'd really just passed out again. Nerys' had been the first voice he heard, but the captain's had been the first face he saw. The hand-sized mask was back in position, but at least he found the strength to remove it himself this time._

"_How are you feeling?" Sisko asked him._

_And Bashir had managed a weary smile. "Like I'm tired of waking up in here."_

_The faintest hint of laughter, warm and quiet, as Sisko scratched his head and looked around him. "I can understand that," had been his reply._

* * *

They stepped through an open door, and the young man stopped when he heard the unexpected noise inside.

_Applause_.

Familiar, beaming faces lined in uneven rows. All of them suddenly looked his way. Feeling his chest grow tight, he turned to where Dax's face also wore a broad, almost triumphant, grin. "What's going on?"

"Call it a welcome home," she whispered, and clasped his shoulder on her way into the background.

"Dax…" he protested, but she had already passed him by.

"Enjoy."

And then there was a glass in his hand, and they were all around him. An endless array of open smiles. Slapping his back. Congratulating him - _for what_? He tried his best to return the sentiment - they had gone to all this trouble after all. But already he sensed his own smile gradually transformed to a tight-lipped grimace. His chest hurt. Couldn't breathe…

"I'm sorry." He realised belatedly that he was backing away, recoiling as though none of the steps he took were his own. The conversation stopped abruptly, silence falling heavy and sudden like a weight upon the room.

"It's just that…" He looked around at all their expectant faces. They were watching, anticipating, waiting to hear what he would say - and he could not think of an excuse to leave. Fighting the panic that had already rendered him close to mute, he set his untouched drink aside. "Excuse me."

* * *

"_Molly was asking after you." There'd been something in O'Brien's hand - a large, boldly decorated, double-folded slip of card. "She wanted me to give you this."_

_Bashir laughed when he saw the childishly rendered likeness of a man, with a round face, broad smile, and dark, tangled hair. The person in Molly O'Brien's portrait was brightly dressed in the recent issue lilac and navy padded uniform, and a hint of blue green protruded clearly from his collar._

_At one point, somebody had decided that this figure should be surrounded by clusters of multicoloured flowers, and there was even a round-nosed orange pony watching from the background. Or was it a giraffe?_

_And at the top of the card, in the large and slightly too circular writing of a seven year old girl, were four words. _Julian Get Well Soon_._

"_I had to help a bit with the spelling," confessed O'Brien. "But the rest is entirely her doing. Oh, and before I forget - and end up getting Hell for it… Keiko said to let you know. She's spoken to the leader of her research group, and the offer still stands. If you want to join them on Bajor, you're more than welcome to tag along. That's about all, really. Although I have to say there's still one good thing to have come from all of this."_

_He paused, and silently raised his eyebrows as though daring his friend to guess what that might be._

"_Oh?" said Julian._

"_Looks like I finally have the advantage at racquetball."_

"_Don't bet on it."_

_There was movement at his other side. "No-one is going anywhere near a racquetball court until I say you're good and ready." Hayes made a show of scolding them both, but there was a good humoured gleam behind his scowl._

_Bashir sighed, playing along. "Aye, Sir."_

"_And even then," Nathan Hayes added. "Only on one condition."_

_Both men were suddenly watching the red-headed doctor, each face echoing the other's puzzled curiosity. "What's that?" It was O'Brien who finally asked._

_Hayes grinned as he sat by the bedside and made some adjustments to his open tricorder. "I plan to be first in line to challenge the winner."_

* * *

Dax followed Julian into the corridor. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Resting against the nearest wall, he was disturbed at how much the scene had troubled him. After all, this wasn't the first surprise party that she had thrown, although most times there was usually somebody around with enough good grace to warn him in advance.

He looked up, and saw her expression transformed to a near perfect copy of his own. "It was a lovely thought, Jadzia. It's just… Honestly? I don't know what I've done to deserve it."

"Apart from helping us to prevent what could well have ended up as yet another catastrophe?" He recognised that look. It was the one she bore when challenging him to fault her reasoning - one specifically reserved for when she was certain that he would not be able.

Too tired to argue with her relentless logic, Bashir gazed upwards at the darkened ceiling. But with the decision to be honest with Dax came a frustrating inability to find the right words. "I'll be fine," he told her eventually, in as steady a voice as he could manage. He was glad at least to note that she was not impatient with him. "Really. It's just… _I'm_ just… I'm not ready for…" His voice failed. Instead of finishing, he gestured dumbly to the wardroom. Dax's party.

"I mean, don't let it keep you from enjoying yourselves. Not on my account…"

She took his hands in both of her own. "It's all right, Julian. I understand."

"Then would you be so kind as to offer my apologies?" he concluded, giving what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Of course."

As he turned away, Bashir made an effort to conceal the lack of fluency in his stride. He could feel Dax's staring gaze upon his back, and knew that she was fretting all the while. But even then, he knew also that what he'd told her was the truth. He would be all right.

* * *

Perhaps this was where it had all begun. Standing by the outer wall, tears spread paper thin across his eyes, watching the stars from far away. Or maybe they were watching him. Who could say for sure?

He imagined that he could sense the loneliness of the station, as if solitude was something that could seep up through the very floors. He'd seen it from the outside many times before. A miniscule, grey, and isolated sentinel - floating through the blackness with nothing but star light to surround it. It always looked so small, so very alone. But then he would notice that it was lit from within. And he would draw closer, and dream that it was beckoning to him - telling him, _Welcome home_.

A cold sensation crept along his back. It may have been little more than a slight fluctuation in the environmental controls. Perhaps it was the sudden feeling of insignificance. Or perhaps it was the barely perceptible movement of shadows at the edge of his vision. Either way, Bashir shuddered, and wrapped his arms still more tightly around his elbows.

But then he was certain. Somebody was watching him, from somewhere far, far closer than those distant stars.

He turned around. "Come to finish the job?" he challenged the man now seated at the nearest end of his sharp-edged dining table.

Sloan smiled, his expression deliberately tight. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Could it possibly be the times you've already tried…?"

"I never tried anything of the kind," the smaller man pointed out. "At least, not with you."

"You're joking."

"You will know when I am joking, Doctor."

There was something oddly predatory behind the man's steady gaze, and in the even calm of his reply. With some effort, Bashir swallowed a hot rage surging upwards from his belly.

"Well, if that's true--" He fought to keep his voice level. "Why _are_ you here?"

"I came to thank you."

"_What_?"

"You aided us in the capture of a dangerous man, Julian." Bashir could almost believe that the man in front of him had indeed been joking, except that now his expression was entirely serious. "We could never have done it as easily without your help."

_My help_?

"So. This was all about Appleton." It was not a question. "You were just using me to lure him here."

Sloan shrugged, palms upward, as if this was all the explanation he needed.

"What have you done with him? You owe me that much."

"We're no Ferengi," the intruder retorted. "This is not a matter of debt or payment. But, since you ask, you can take comfort in the knowledge that _he_ at least won't be paying you any more unexpected visits."

Bashir shuddered coldly. He dreaded to say more. But there was still one thing he had to know.

"That virus," he continued. "It isn't for use on Jem'Hadar."

With an even tighter smile, Sloan nodded. "Very good. How did you know?"

"The RNA sequencing is all wrong - completely incompatible with Jem'Hadar physiology. Their immune systems would destroy it in less than a minute."

The intruder grinned, like a father who'd just watched his son make one of life's first clever discoveries. It chilled the young man's blood.

"What's it for, then?"

"Now that _would_ be telling," Sloan chided him. "By all means though, I'm not about to stop you from attempting to find out. No doubt you already have everything Appleton showed you committed to memory. But trust me - if I thought you had even the remotest chance of stopping our project, then neither one of us would be having this delightful conversation we're having."

"What's that, some kind of threat?"

"Not at all." He rose to his feet. "But it _is_ interesting, isn't it, to consider those roads we might have taken? _If only_. Two such small words, and yet they have the power to haunt us every waking moment. For instance, just think what a team you and I could have made… Especially now that you find yourself at something of a loose end."

Bashir shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Are you certain? This is quite an opportunity I'm offering. You may not find a better one."

"I'm already going to Bajor."

"Bajor?" Sloan repeated slowly, and for the first time his face showed what appeared to have been genuine surprise. "Really?"

The truth was, Bashir had surprised himself with his unexpected reply. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. _New adventures_, Garak had told him. It was as good a place as any to start. Eyes narrowed, he tilted his head ever so slightly upwards, and met his adversary with a level stare.

He spoke confidently, with more certainty in his words than he had felt in a very long time.

"I'm going. To Bajor."

"If you say so." A soft chuckle escaped from the shorter man's chest. Bashir's wary gaze tracked every one of his movements as he strode towards the door and turned around. "Until next time."

"What makes you think there's even going to be a next time?"

Sloan paused in the doorway, his answering smile ice cold. "There will be," he promised. "It may not be for quite a while. Or it may be within a week, for all I know. But I guarantee, you will see me again."

* * *

**The End. Perhaps.**


End file.
